


Warhound

by twigcollins



Category: Dragon Age II, Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A former Tevinter Ranger on the run seeks refuge, and finds more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fenris is soaked clean through by the storm, even his leathers sodden, practically dripping from the tips of his ears. He’s starting to think that when they say ‘sun’ here they mean something else entirely, and if he hears one more refrain of “Free Marches, more like Free _Marshes_ ‘ he’s not going to be responsible for his actions. 

Looking out from the edge of the town, he's tried to catch a glimpse of the horizon. The sea’s supposed to be close but the storm’s so bad he can’t see it, and if there’s any Jaegers keeping sentry in the bay he can’t tell them from the rest of the jagged cliffs. The sky’s a dark, bleak stone overhead and when Fenris ducks beneath the overhang of the bar he trades the rain for the dark, the fug of mildew and damp enough to make him reconsider.

Who would have thought such a day as this to be so hard won?

Fenris waits until he’s mostly stopped dripping before moving through the doors, scanning the empty streets one final time before he steps inside. It’s been two weeks and nearly half a country ago since there were any problems, and this isn’t a welcoming place for Tevinters but that doesn’t mean he’s safe. Still, what the distance cannot give him the rain might just provide, and so he steps into the concrete bunker of what was very obviously not the bar it has become.

The inside is nearly as dead as the street, a jukebox muttering away some tune he doesn’t know, a few men playing cards at a back table, and a dwarf working through some ledger at the opposite side. Fenris knows they’re watching, he always seems to be worth a extra few seconds even If the coat covers most of the marks, but thankfully here it goes no further than that and he is left alone. 

The bartender smiles, and Fenris can guess the quality of the establishment - or their connections - by the fact that a drink isn’t waiting for him when he sits down. The rationed bars don’t bother with menus, you get what they have to serve. Unfortunately Fenris is shaving down the last few coppers of a job that hadn’t promised much before he’d taken it, and the bartender’s slight interest quickly fades when he orders a glass of what he already knows is a piss-water ale

“Save the glass, Norah, and offer the elf something proper to warm him up.”

It’s the dwarf calling out, and he must be a regular because the barkeep smiles at him, pulling a bottle of what is significantly more expensive and far more likely to be off the ration books from beneath the bar, pouring out a hefty amber shot and setting it on the bar in front of him.

Fenris has no good options. Trusting strangers even so far as listening to them could mean risking everything, even accepting a free drink means a dangerous obligation. He’d prefer to be left alone entirely, but there’s the matter of needing food and shelter and some kind of connections, some idea of where to go next and what to do. It’s stupid to trust anyone so generous from the start, but Fenris is also exhausted from the journey and the constant rain and so he takes the glass and follows the unspoken cue, walking across the bar to sit down across the table from his new, mysterious benefactor.

The dwarf has a glass of his own, and raises it in greeting. Fenris tips back his shot, lets the smoky warmth burn down his throat and seep into him as much as it can, enough like comfort that he relaxes a little against the chair. 

“- Marches, I think you mean the Free Marshes!” A voice rises just slightly from the other table, and Fenris only realizes the face he’s making when the dwarf chuckles.

“Trust me, it gets worse when they start singing.” The dwarf smiles. “Varric Tethras, at your service.”

Fenris cannot tell much about him, other than that his chest hair appears to be at war with his shirt and is currently holding the high ground. Varric casually flips through a few more papers, with no sign that he’s in any sort of hurry or indeed, wished for his presence for any particular purpose. A lie, of course, and despite himself Fenris finds he is growing impatient, even edgy. He glances at the door, cannot help himself even when he knows the dwarf sees him do it.

“So, what compels a sodden elf to the Hanged Man on such a lovely afternoon?”

Fenris is embarrassed to find how rusty all his words are, as if he’s chiseling each one out like stones from a resisting wall. He hasn’t been much for conversation this past year, and before that… far less so.

“I was hoping I might find a proper inn. I… believed Kirkwall to be a bit larger than this.” 

Varric chuckles again, but it’s not a cruel sound.

“Well, I can at least solve part of your problem. You’re not in Kirkwall. What you’re in is mostly for the fishermen, or for the lookouts on the outer points. It doesn’t actually have a name, even though I keep pushing for Tethrasville.” 

“Oh.” A setback, but a rather small one, though it _is_ a bit of a relief to find he has yet to reach the city. He’d been told many things about Kirkwall, but he’s been told many things about many things, and disappointment is always lurking. “So, perhaps you could tell me the fastest road.”

Varric hasn't stopped smiling, but there’s a hint of something in the expression now, a little too close to pity, and Fenris has to keep from edging away for entirely new reasons.

“There aren’t any roads into Kirkwall from this side. You’ve got your choice of a week’s backtracking, or a boat to take you in.” The wind picks up outside, and for a moment both they stare at the thick, charcoal clouds and the now-horizontal rain. “… And there aren’t any boats.”

And even if there were, Fenris doesn’t have the coin. He hoped his luck would be slightly better, that he’d be able to make it into Kirkwall, and from there… more luck. Maybe too much more. If all he has heard about the city is true, they won’t be short on Ranger candidates, men and women of known merit from familiar places. Fenris ignores the clutch of cold desperation, wishing he had another shot, or the bottle. He has other options, he can stay as he is, working as a smuggler or simple muscle - but Danarius will find him, has found him, will do so again, and if he has nowhere to make a stand then he’ll run forever.

_Where do you think you can hide, my little wolf? Where do you think I can’t find you?_

“Hey, elf.” Varric’s voice brings him back, out of what he knows is only memory but memory has long since been a loaded word. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good, because the storm’s clearing out a little, so this is our chance.”

“I thought you said there weren’t any boats.”

“There’s not.” Varric says, throwing all his papers into a bag, and hoisting it on his back, surprisingly nimble for a dwarf. He doesn’t toss any money down, but the bartender only gives him a cheery farewell. “I’ve got my ways. You coming?”

“I can’t…” Fenris stops, hates himself, keeps going. “I can’t pay you.”

Varric is not surprised, which is honestly a little annoying. “I tell you what, I’ll get you to Kirkwall if you tell me what you plan on doing once you’re there.”

It’s a friendly offer, not an interrogation, and from the tone Fenris can tell Varric’s expecting a bit of a yarn for the trip on whatever is is they’ll be traveling on. The friendliness annoys him, the not-knowing is worse - or maybe Fenris really is broken, the way he’s been telling himself all this time that he’s not. A feral thing too crazed to do anything but snap even at an extended hand.

“I’m a Ranger. I survived my Indentureship and I wish to compete to pilot a new Jaeger.”

His voice is hard enough that it almost sounds like the truth. Varric blinks, and grins.

“You’re lucky I don’t charge by the word, elf.” He pulls the hood up on his coat. Fenris hasn’t begun to dry out, so there’s no need to do much of anything. “Let’s go.”

The wind is like a slap in the face, the rain hard enough to sting. “I still don’t see how we’re getting through this storm.”

“That’s because you haven’t met Bianca yet.”

————————————————————

Fenris doesn’t know if they’ll let him anywhere near a Jaeger. He doesn’t know if the need for replacement pilots is anything like it is back in the Imperium. He’s not sure if his skills will translate here - but they must, he’s certain they must. Anyone can use a Ranger who can bear a full damage load without falling, leaving the Prime Pilot clear to strike. He’s damn sure done it, with both arms ripped clean to the cables and steel flayed from throat to navel and he’d held it, hadn’t he? The Rangers can use him, and he’ll submit to the Drift. As long as it isn’t some Magister in his head, he can bear even that. 

Of course, none of this matters because he’s not going to survive to see Kirkwall in the first place.

The chopper lurches, in free fall even as it’s slammed by the wind and Fenris clutches at the wall as if it will do anything at all, keeping his eyes open out of sheer stubbornness even though that means he can see how close they are to the granite walls on both sides, the sea churning so furiously beneath them it’s almost pure white.

Varric chuckles and pats the nearest window with one gentle hand. Fenris can’t quite hear him over the sound of the helicopter’s engine, but it’s been a constant string of endearments to Bianca the AH-64 _Varterral_ since before they left the ground. He doesn’t want to know why the dwarf named the machine, or how he came to pilot it. Fenris doesn’t even care where they’re going so long as they land there or just crash and get it over with. The helicopter climbs just to fall again, and Fenris can’t see a damned thing through the glass, though Varric might possibly be humming happily under his breath.

He’d noticed the crates the moment they’d climbed inside, their third passenger carefully stowed in the rear, but it seemed Varric considered him trustworthy enough to keep a secret, or disposable enough that it didn’t matter. Oddly enough, finding out the man wasn’t entirely reputable did a bit to ease Fenris’ mind.

“Aggregio Pavali,” he said. “A good choice.” 

“Oh ho,” Varric smiled. “You hear that, Bianca? We have a connoisseur!”

He should have known then, to get out and walk the rainy week back to the road. To take his chances rather than go down in a shrieking hunk of oddly-named metal - although he can keep it as his last thought, that Danarius might continue to waste great time and resources searching, while Fenris rests at the bottom of the sea.

“We’re almost there!” Varric yells, “it should calm down a bit from here on out!”

Fenris doesn’t believe him, but amazingly its true. As they sweep past the last of the jagged rocks and into the Bay of Kirkwall, a strange calm settles, the flight evening out though it doesn’t do much for the view. Varric’s chattering with the mainland now, requesting clearances and arranging landing strategies. It can’t be so difficult with no one else crazy enough to be in the skies. If the dwarf is at all worried about the bevy of ill-gotten gains in their hold, it doesn’t show.

The water is black as ink-stained slate, and the sky continues to press down and down, but now Fenris can see them, stretching out along both sides of the cliffs below the city - the Jaegers, a row of silent sentinels, and beyond them a great building rising up amidst the crumbling remains of the Tevinter’s ancient, failed Kaiju wall.

“Well, there it is, elf.” Varric says. “Welcome to the Kirkwall Shatterdome.”


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody knew just what the ancient Imperium had attempted, or even intended, and they’d certainly never owned up to their failure, but nothing they did in the present suggested they weren’t solely responsible for the cataclysm of the past. For every rumor Fenris had heard of Tevinter along his journey across the continent, he could back it up with two facts, and far worse - horrors that most of Thedas could not imagine.

The land is still strewn with markers of the glory of the Imperium, vast structures repurposed or torn down and scattered to build entire villages from the remains. The Tevinter Magisters had wealth and power, technology and knowledge beyond imagining - and still it had not been enough to sate their appetites.

The stories fight each other to claim their right as truth. The Dalish say their elvhen ancestors had first touched the world beyond the world, had been granted their glories at the counsel of great and wise spirits, providing them dominion over all the land, making them strong and wise and immortal. 

It might be true, the thought of lost glory is a satisfying one, easy to want to believe - but that is where Fenris finds his doubts. Either way, the Imperium had come to challenge them, had grown and grown in strength and power, eclipsing the elves and their powers and reaching even further, striking out into those unknown realms for new spaces to conquer, victory chasing victory.

Whatever the elves had done or not done, when the Magisters Breached the Veil, they very nearly doomed the world.

The first Blight lasted for almost ten years, and by the end of it nearly half of Thedas lay dead or dying. The Magisters had cracked some seal upon the earth - beneath the earth - and all across the land the Kaiju were coming through by the dozens. Demons, maybe. Monsters, most certainly - beasts like rampaging mountains that had left the great cities of the Empire shattered in their wake. Fenris can imagine what it must have been like, he’s fought Kaiju dangerously close to Minrathous, buildings crumbling and people screaming along the outskirts of the city, trying to flee. 

The ancient Magisters would have been much like their current counterparts, throwing anyone they could in the way in their desperate attempt to save themselves. He likes to think it didn’t do them much good.

It had been the dwarves to finally save them all, more secure than any in their underground thaigs, but not so well protected that they could afford to look away. The Kaiju were toxic beasts of toxic blood, with fields fallow and dying in their wake, and they did not stop or rest or seem to know anything but destruction - and they could dig. It must have seemed impossible, when the dwarves saw their first city drowned, when the protection of the Deep Roads no longer seemed so sure. So the great craftsmen had lit their forges, and there were a dozen Paragons or more given honors for that first effort to bring the Jaegers to life. The Imperium burned, and much was lost - but enough had been saved, woven up into armor and lyrium, to bring them back from the edge of annihilation.

Time went on. The crippled Imperium split and retreated and split again. A revolt began, those first Indentured overthrowing their Magister pilots, with a woman named Andraste to turn Tevinter’s Jaegers against their own, leading an army in the rechristened _Maker’s Light_. Andraste sacrificed her life for her cause, betrayed and abandoned at the end, but the Imperium had been firmly routed, never to regain all that had one been theirs. The elves gathered together once more, only to lose it all again to the Kaiju, scattered as they fled the ravaged remnants of what became the Dalish archipelago. The Qunari appeared from the North, in Jaegers to match the power of any dwarf-made, and there had been fights between Jaegers in Seheron ever since. Men and women and whole villages left to die so that the Magisters might gain some small victory over the Qunari war machine.

Fenris has heard the sound of the monsters feeding, the screams of those unlucky enough to pick the wrong refuge and watch it turn to a charnel house. At times it seems the Imperium would rather see Seheron bathed in blue than give up even an inch of it.

A second Blight followed, and a third, though each were somehow beaten back, dragging more of the Imperium’s might with them back into the sea. The Blights were the worst of it, swarms of monsters at a time rising up from the seas, but in between there were still dangers, Kaiju appearing in steady succession to smash armadas or devastate entire coastlines. The appearance of the Wardens was a mystery all its own, along with the name of the dwarf to build the Jaeger that became _Gryphon Rampant_ \- a legend against the fourth Blight - but they are ever present, wandering between the Shatterdomes, sentinels who always seem to know when the Kaiju are coming.

It seemed they hadn’t predicted this last Blight, if indeed it even had been so. Fenris had been on the run then, with new gossip in every town he passed, some sort of coup between men in a land to the far south who thought a Kaiju attack the proper time - it was practically Imperial. Many Jaegers had been lost, the Wardens taking a particularly ill hit, politics nearly destroying what the Kaiju could not. Orlesians lined the border in their own towering _chevaliers_ , prepared for the worst. Somehow, the worst hadn’t come, the Blight not a decade or even half as much - only a single year. Still, the Breaches remain, scattered across all of Thedas, and Kirkwall is one of the most active cities up and down the coast, hit five times as often as any other city in the Marches, as if the Kaiju are drawn to it, and so here he is.

\--------------------------

“I bet you never thought you’d see a dwarf fly!” Varric says as he touches down, the sound of the engines slowly replaced by the ringing in his ears.

“I’m still not sure I have.” Fenris says, gaining a laugh for the trouble. He wonders if anything is enough to dent the dwarf’s good mood - but then, this is a _Varterral_ , fully armed and ready for combat. Varric is among those lunatic few to run support for the Jaegers, facing down the Kaiju at the same distances, with nothing but reflexes and luck in the way of protection. What use is a sour mood?

“Sign-up for Ranger trials is down the hall.” Varric says, gesturing through the curtains of rain toward a channel cut into the cliff, nearly tall enough for a Jaeger to slip through. 

“You’re here at the right time, we’ve had two double events in the last nine weeks.”

“ _Two_?”

Varric shrugs, as if he can’t believe it either. The ground crew is moving in toward his helicopter, and so it’s time for him to make his exit.

“Hey, elf!” Varric yells after him. “You never told me, who do I place my bets on?”

He has no reason to be optimistic, even if he’s made it this far. Still, it seems that during the trip some of the dwarf’s senseless optimism has rubbed off on him, and he actually smiles back.

“Fenris.”

———————————————

Once he’s inside the Shatterdome, it takes him all of two minutes to be completely lost. So much for confidence.

Fenris might well swallow his pride and retreat to the flight deck, but he isn’t even sure where that is anymore. Kirkwall’s dome is as vast as any in the Imperium - conceived by the same builders - but laid out in a way that speaks of countless revisions and repairs and makeshift improvements, all undercut by the strict necessities of pragmatism. Everything is gray, shiny, gray and shiny or pebbled to keep some traction in the rain- a permanent dampness seems to be the city’s steady state. 

The Shatterdome defends Kirkwall’s outer edge, with the Wall of Life just beyond, a secondary line of defense. The wall was built to last - without the Kaiju it would still be as strong as the day it was raised. Even now, it’s better than nothing, and Fenris has heard that over the generations Kirkwall has actually turned the wall itself into housing, a series of slums inside its warren-like structures, those at the bottom in the worst of squalor while those near the top live more comfortably. Only the houses of the wealthy and well-connected are allowed to perch on the cliff far above.

Perhaps Fenris has not fled as far from the Imperium as he had hoped, but at least for the moment he is out of the rain.

After a while, he at least finds his way out of the cavernous rooms where the Jaegers are obviously kept for maintenance, and into more human-sized spaces, though whatever area he’s in now is just as devoid of life. Climbing to the second floor reveals nothing different from below, and no one to either help or challenge him. Only row after row of anonymous doors and blank corridors leading in equally unknown directions. The whole building hums with the low-level noise of thousands of workers elsewhere, a steady-state that helps him divine exactly nothing of what his next move ought to be. Of course, it might help if he knew what any of the arrows or pictures or signs were trying to tell him, but…

Fenris’ hands clench into frustrated fists. He can fake it, somehow. He can Drift and he can _fight_ , that’s what matters most. For the rest - he’ll just make do. As if there’s any other option.

“You should dry off, or you might catch a cold.”

Fenris knows by the fourth word what he’s going to turn and see, the icy slug of dread in his gut at the soft, toneless voice.

The girl is tall and slender, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. She would be pretty, beautiful even - except that her eyes are also vacant, watching him with neither trepidation nor welcome nor even interest. He had hoped, though there was no reason to believe Kirkwall or any other land to be so much improved on the Imperium, to believe anything except for the distance it put between him and Danarius, but still, he had _hoped_ …

“You’re Tranquil.” He blurts, stupid and impolite, though there’s nothing in the girl left to take offense.

“Yes.”

The weight of a Jaeger on the untrained mind can kill with relative ease, though the difference between trained and untrained is only one of a slightly thicker eggshell trapped beneath a brick. Fenris understood that most of Thedas had teams of two in their Jaegers, meant to securely share the burden within the Drift. Many times these two would be related - siblings, or parents and their children, or husbands and wives - strong bonds, those who shared enough that the shocking intimacy of a shared mind would not be a total evisceration of their privacy.

The Imperium had no time for such concerns. The Imperium didn’t care, not with so many Indentured at their disposal, a slightly more polite word than slave. As if the choice to starve or serve was much choice at all. 

The Magisters bound them up, one after the next - trained, untrained, it didn’t matter - three or four, up to six at a time, once. Tevinter Jaegers and their Magisters Drifted in one direction only, for as often as Fenris had his own soul flayed raw he had never caught a glimpse of a stray thought from Danarius. 

Hadriana had slipped only once, an overtaxed machine, some flaw in the system giving him a jolt of her desperation and fury at her own weakness and the raw fear that she would be overlooked and cast aside, terrified of a future where she was not the Magister’s favorite. Fenris had seen her heart, right down to the quivering soul of her, and Hadriana _knew_ he’d seen it - and she’d had him beaten so badly he’d been unable to stand. 

A price well worth the paying.

The Indentured weren’t meant to do the thinking, and some weren’t even meant to do the fighting, only to soak up the damage, take the neural load off the Magisters so they wouldn’t break a sweat. Fenris has been there, he’s seen Magisters go through a dozen men or more in a single battle, he’s watched and heard and _felt_ their minds shatter like a string of overloaded lights, one right after the next. 

Nearly all of them die instantly. The ones that don’t… who could say, death might be a mercy compared to the half-life of the girl before him. Rendered into little more than a walking corpse that can move and talk but never feel again. Tranquil, a far more generous name than all the other words that come to mind at the sight of one. The Magisters dispose of them in one way or another, worthless in Jaegers with their minds gone, usually left to wander the streets, snapped up for free labor by those who can bear to look them in the eye, or simply disappearing from sight.

He had never thought he would meet a Tranquil the moment he stepped into Kirkwall.

“You don’t need to look at me like that. I am not in pain.”

“I apologize.”

The girl blinks at him. He could have slapped her to exactly the same effect.

“I have not seen you before.”

“No, this is my first time in Kirkwall. Unfortunately, at the moment I am quite lost.” If this were a regular conversation, he might make some awkward mention of the rain, and she might smile kindly or glare at him in anger or distrust, but of course she is neither curious nor afraid.

“I can help you, if you prefer.”

“That would be very kind.” 

Fenris thinks she must have been kind, once. He can’t imagine the circumstances that ended with her in a Jaeger, who it was that didn’t notice she had no business being there. The girl turns with a grace that’s nearly painful for the lack of joy in it, and he moves to her side as she walks down the halls, up stairs and around the maze-like corridors without hesitation. He could use this opportunity to his advantage, getting information from one most likely to give it, with no interest in what he asks for or why - but Fenris can’t bring himself to do it.

On their right, the wall suddenly gives away to a wide window with a better view of the Wall. Fenris can see the cracks in it more clearly now, the missing panels and patched-over claw marks and tiny clusters of lights, like stars, from the city deep inside. He can’t hear the wind, and the storm seems to be a world away, no more life in it than a painting. 

“You shine.” The girl says, and Fenris glances down, the edges of his tattoos glinting beneath the cuffs of his coat, and of course there are the ones that curve along his throat, hardly subtle there.

“Yes. It is lyrium.” Enough to power a Jaeger, were it ripped from him completely, at least that’s what he’d heard. The sort of investment any man would wish to reclaim. He does not want to be new property - never, never again - but if Kirkwall finds him as useful as the Imperium did, they might not be so quick to wish him gone. If it comes to that. It may not come to that. 

He knows plenty well that it will.

“I have never heard of such a thing.”

Mostly because it kills everyone else who’s tried. Fenris doesn’t bother answering, and of course the girl doesn’t press him. Her footfalls echo down the hall. He only wears boots in a Jaeger, even though these floors are cold. 

“You certainly know your way around,” he finally says, the silence of a Tranquil as unnerving as the conversation. “Are you from Kirkwall?”

“No.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Five years. My family left Ferelden when my father died. Hawke and I traveled back and forth across the Waking Sea during the Blight.”

 _Hawke_ must be the name of her Jaeger. Fenris wonders how long the girl lasted, and who pilots it now. He wonders if this city was pleased to gain control of it, and what happened to her partner. 

“Are you an orphan, then?” It would be easy to prey on a young girl all alone, to convince her to take risks when she should not. He’d thought Kirkwall to have enough Rangers to avoid stooping to such tactics, but even Tevinter could train more Rangers, if it wished. It satisfies them not to.

“My mother lives in Hightown, but she does not visit often. It upsets her to see me this way.”

Fenris stops asking questions after that.

A few doors further and down a short hall, and the girl leads them to the start a wide walkway, a great hall so vast a dozen idiots could not have missed it, and yet somehow Fenris had passed it by. At least he’s found where all the people are. Men and women, dwarves and elves mostly in uniform are all walking briskly around them, a sense of quiet but steady urgency in the air.

“This is the main gate of the Shatterdome. You can enter Kirkwall from here. If you are looking for the Alienage, it is on decks two and three of the Western Wall, in Lowtown.”

“Actually, I’m looking for the testing grounds.” He wonders how they judge their candidates here, how they measure victory if not in blood.

“You want to be a Ranger?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

It’s disconcerting to say the least, to be asked that by a Tranquil, and he’s somewhat surprised she’s been allowed to stay here, a blatant reminder of all those dangers that do not involve being crushed by a Kaiju.

Fenris doesn’t need to answer her, but there’s been little else to occupy his mind along the journey. Maybe it really has been bred into him now, too close to the bone to do otherwise. Maybe it’s a terrible idea but it’s the only one he’s got. If he’s going to live he needs some leverage, any leverage and if he’s going to die he’d rather die fighting.

“I have no choice.”

“That does not sound like a good reason.”

“No. I suppose it isn’t.”

“Mistress Bethany!” A cry comes from the other side of the hall, a small figure darting quickly toward them. “Oh, I’ve been looking everywhere. I wish you wouldn’t wander off so.”

“I’m sorry, Orana. This elf was lost, so I was helping him. I did not mean to worry you.”

Her elven servant is accompanied by a mabari, the Ferelden dog’s shoulder rising nearly to her hip. It’s in harness, as if ready for battle, although it seems to be as much a uniform as any of the other men and women moving about. The dog sniffs at him a little, but seems otherwise undisturbed, wagging its tail at its master. They say the dogs are smart enough to understand, but maybe he is only trying to make the best of things. 

“It’s not a worry, mistress, I just-“ A glance at Fenris, and this one comes with a familiar set of emotions - suspicious, maybe even a little afraid. “It isn’t safe to go walking around here. If anything happened to you, I would never be forgiven.”

“Yes, she would.”

Orana ignores the calm reply, sliding her arm around the girl’s own, before curtsying politely to Fenris. “Thank you, ser, and good day to you.”

“Thank you… Bethany. I was very grateful for your help.” Fenris makes himself look at her out of respect, even if it doesn’t matter. Her blank eyes reflect the clouds and the storms, but he hopes, senselessly, that it is not all as bleak as it seems.

“Good luck to you, ser. I hope you find what you are looking for.”

——————————————————————

The _Siren’s Call_ is Antiva’s swiftest, strongest and most powerful Jaeger, even if it doesn’t maybe quite belong to them anymore. Hawke’s still not entirely clear on the details. It’s complicated, in the kind of way that means Isabela’s either directly defending the ships of the Felicisima Armada or she’s not allowed to set foot into their waters without being blown to kingdom come. Hawke has absolutely no idea how the other woman keeps it all sorted from one day to the next.

Like she said, complicated. Yet another reason to be glad she was born Ferelden.

Officially, they’re hanging about the _Call_ because of the work that’s being done to her, with Isabela standing by to answer any questions and oversee the slight upgrades, but it’s mostly a lot of Conn-pod checks and things the crews can do without them. They’re really there because Isabela’s Jaeger is docked right above the long hallway where most everyone has to pass by, including every new Ranger candidate currently signing up to serve. It’s a plentiful batch this year, but they’ll keep quite a few in reserve, training on the simulations in case of emergencies, a Ranger brought down by illness or some other accident, the kind of thing a pilot never stops to think about because what are the odds of dying outside your Jaeger? 

There’s been rumor that the dwarves are even working on some new machines to send into the fray - the long-awaited Mark V’s - though the Mark IV _Call_ is still the best Hawke’s ever seen. One of the prettiest, too, all gold and ivory curves from top to bottom, almost too lovely to kill things with. Almost. It’s brutally fast, with blades that curve back from each arm past the elbow and enough dwarven firepower to plow through a mountain. It’s the flashbangs that make her truly lethal, though, a distracted Kaiju quickly a dead one if Isabela’s anywhere nearby.

At the moment a dozen dwarves are hanging about in the pod, making careful calibrations and upgrades, while she and Isabela and Merrill sit on the Jaeger’s upturned palm, a wide platform that gives them a marvelous view of the walkway below.

“Oh, look at that one, Hawke. I do love a man with no neck.”

“The girl, two rows back.” Hawke says. “I like how much she talks with her hands.”

Isabela stretches, easily a match to anything pretty down below. “God, I hope there’s twins this year.”

“I heard Orlais has a set of triplets in one of theirs now.”

“Get out. Get off my ship with your sexy lies.”

Merrill isn’t adding much to the conversation, her nose stuck in yet another old, perhaps even untranslated tome of ancient research on the Kaiju. It’s not a popular topic of conversation, certainly not around these parts. There’s a real rift in Kirkwall between the science side of things and the Rangers, which is strange since they’re all on the same team. It’s true that the Tevinters mucking around with dimensions and space and time is what caused the whole problem in the first place, what keeps them all hip deep in monsters and always bracing for more, but it’s the Tevinters who also came up with the power that got those first dwarven Jaegers moving, who figured out how to Drift to keep them fighting, and finally to push back against the inexorable tide.

Merrill says the elves of old worshiped other gods, through other Breaches, and if they could find those again, surely the old gods would help. Hawke’s not certain about that, or if it’s the best idea to go sifting through the bones of past mistakes for answers, but Merrill’s no fool and she’s Isabela’s partner and so Hawke already knows what side she’s on.

Besides, there’s so much they don’t know that might yet be useful about the Jaegers, or the Kaiju. The Drift. 

Tranquility.

A few bays down the hangar from where they’re seated, she sees a team of mechanics finally repairing the battle damage to _Blazing Sword_. Only a few of the machines are ever allowed to be out for service at any one time, and never any two of the top-ranked Jaegers at once. The way they get hit in Kirkwall it’s a wonder they even bother with a clock, though it’s counting down on the wall behind them even now, the next Kaiju still folding its laundry or doing taxes or whatever they do on the other side of the Breach before it’s time to cause trouble.

“Oh, check out the shoulders on _her_.” Isabela coos. “Skip the machines, she can bench-press all the Kaiju into submission.”

Hawke listens to the other Ranger slowly detail all the ways she’d like to play welcome wagon, or _be_ the welcome wagon as she sits down, slowly shifting her way to the edge. Hawke hooks her legs into the the crook of one of the _Call’s_ armored finger panels so she can hang upside down over the side, staring at the sea of people as they shift and blur in front of her. 

Just by Drifting with Isabela, Merrill easily has the second best sex life in the Shatterdome, and even Hawke’s been subject to a few of the elf’s cheerful compliments - ‘I tried that thing I saw you do to her that one time, Hawke, and Isabela popped a pillow right open! It was feathers everywhere!” A truly marvelous side-effect of the Drift, better orgies through chemistry, but the Ranger from Rivain has a libido worth team of Rangers and then some. Isabela adored the exceedingly small smalls Hawke bought her last year, with a tiny cartoon Kaiju emblazoned on the minuscule scrap of fabric, and she might very well be wearing them now. 

It’s sort of their running claim to fame here in Kirkwall, that Isabela will sleep with half the Shatterdome while Hawke Drifts with the rest, and for what it’s worth it’s mostly true.

Hawke’s an anomaly, of the sort that even has other Rangers giving her the side-eye, for how easily she can adapt to match her partner, for how she can Drift with damn near anyone. Compatibility is a tricky thing, they can’t always rely on having the right team for the right moment - and no matter how good a season they have, there’s always room for new Rangers. Unofficially, Hawke’s the ‘training brain.’ All the advice from her father, all that meditation and focus - it means she can get candidates comfortable with walking around in another person’s memories without forcing them through too many of her own. She’s always been compatible enough to kill Kaiju, that’s what matters, but eventually her partners move on to stronger bonds, and back to saner hunting grounds elsewhere along the coast, or even down into Ferelden. 

It’s fun, she won’t deny that. Hawke likes meeting new people, loves the way they come into the Drift scared and nervous and trying not to show it, and always leave stronger than before, ready for action. A real joy to discover how each new person sees the world, and even when it’s ugly she can at least be there to share it with them. It’s a wondrous thing, every candidate, each one with a whole universe behind their eyes. 

Even without a steady partner, her Jaeger’s still plenty strong in a fight, with the kill count to prove it. It’s a good thing she’s doing, the most important job she will ever do - but Hawke does miss it, sometimes. Having just the one partner, like other Rangers do, like her father did. One connection stronger and truer than anything in the world, someone who knew her completely - and she wouldn’t fuck it up this time, whoever they were. Hawke would die first, before she’d ever let them get hurt.

She’s looking through the crowd, wondering who’s going to make it out of all these potentials. The Commander’s standards are stricter by the year, and subject to what seem like occasional, unpredictable fits of pique. No reason to bring it up, that Hawke doesn’t quite agree with Meredith’s methods or her justifications, the Commander’s anger coiled so tight she’s as likely to burst as lash out. Sure, there’s plenty to be angry over, plenty of reasons to hurt, but going out there to face those nightmares with nothing but anger, day after day, it’ll eat a person alive. Literally, or maybe not, but it ends in the same place either way. 

It’s not about surviving. It’s about living.

——————————————

Hawke sees the elf the moment he steps into the hanger. His pale hair blazes up against the backdrop of blue and gray and Hawke watches him take in the whole room with a long, slow glance, sees that he’s wary and weary and impressed all at once - and beautiful, enough to send her thoughts scrambling for better words, coming up at an unsurprising loss.

“Oh my good, good god.”

“Hm, Hawke?” A spill of long, dark hair unfurls as Isabela stretches out next to her, also upside down. “What are you - oh. Oh, _hello_.”

“What? What is it? What’s going on?”

Merrill isn’t quite courageous enough to join them hanging over the side, so she’s poking at Hawke’s knees with a pen instead.

“Bone at first sight.” Isabela says. “Target locked and acquired, ready to launch.”

Hawke could quip back, but she’s somewhat distracted, and Isabela can do all right by herself for a bit.

“Is it that one? The kind of… baldy one? No, that can’t be it,” Merrill says, finally leaning over far enough to make a guess. “Or is it that one that looks a bit - oh, is it the one with the nose?”

“I have never been so happy to have so few morals.” Isabela says. 

“Or such a great ass.” 

“Indeed.”

“Are you two… oh, I’m missing things again. I’m no good at this.” Merrill says.

“You’ll catch up in the Drift, Mer. No worries.” Hawke calls to her.

The elf moves well, carefully and with purpose - he’s fought before, at least hand-to-hand if not in a sim. He’s got strange tattoos that might just cover most of his body if the tip of his chin is anything to go by. Maybe that’s how they do the interface where he's from.

“Stannard’s going to hate him. Another one of us foreigners loitering in her dome.” Isabela smirks. “As if there’s anything else going on in her dome.”

Hawke snorts. “The last thing I ever want to think about is Meredith’s dome.”

“Well, _obviously_ that’s dirty.” Merrill says. ”Somehow.”

“He must be the one Varric was talking about.” Isabela says. “Brought the elf back with him from the Wounded Coast. Supposedly, he was an Indentured Ranger, and now he wants to pilot again. He’s from Tevinter.”

“Really?”

“Varric said he was cursing in Tevene the whole ride over.”

Hawke’s never met anyone from Tevinter, just heard all the stories. “I didn’t think they could just stop being Indentured.” 

One more of those words the Imperium liked to put their chains on, nothing they can’t make worse. Isabela makes a soft, dismissive sound. Few things happen the way they’re supposed to happen in her world, and very little ever surprises her. 

It doesn’t really matter how he came to be here, the fact is that he’s right there, moving past them and toward the lines of new recruits ready to get knocked about in nine directions at once, eager to be chewed up and spit out and trod on all for the good of Thedas.

Isabela grins. “Imagine that, I finally have a reason to show up for the Commander’s little pep talk.”

“Like you’d ever miss it. She hates you too much.”

“True.”

The elf is at the end of the walkway, taking his place in line, and then he’s around the corner and gone, with absolutely no idea how he’s upended her whole world. It’s going to be bad. Really stupid bad. Hawke sits up, doesn’t really feel the blood rushing down from her head, already too dizzy for that.

“Did Varric happen to mention a name?”

“Fenris.”

“Yep, that’ll do.” Hawke sighs, and falls back over into the _Call’s_ open palm while Isabela laughs. “It’s not funny, Iz. It’s not funny.” 

But it is, it _really_ is and oh, he’s so beautiful and what is she supposed to do with that?

“Maybe he'll be a right bastard and I won't have to care. I’m doomed. I can’t… I just… _look_ at him.” 

Isabela grins. “Oh, I was.”

“We both know I have no game to speak of. I wouldn’t know where to even-“ Hawke strikes out at the air, and lets her hand fall. “I just punch Kaiju until people want to make out with me.”

“I’m sure he’ll like punching Kaiju, Hawke.”

“Thank you, Merrill.”

“You know,” Isabela says, “the _really_ funny part is when you two end up Drifting and he sees this whole conversation.”

“I regret nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yep, Blazing Sword. A Voltron reference and a Dragon Age reference all in one. I also regret nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

“I am Marshall Meredith Stannard, and half of you here will not make it to the second week. Half of those who pass the physical exams and score high enough in the simulations will not be able to withstand the mental strain of the Drift or will prove too incompatible to continue. The life expectancy of a Ranger in direct combat is less than seven minutes. A third of you who do succeed in becoming Rangers will not survive long enough to hear this speech again.”

The Marshall is exactly as Varric described her - a real ray of sunshine. At least she’s honest in her coldness, surveying the silent room with a gaze carved from granite, not about to waste a word more than she has to. Fenris can respect that - if nothing else it is a relief from the Magisters’ seemingly endless paeans to their own self-importance. 

Stannard’s taken note of him already, he’s sure of that, little chance he will ever be just a face in the crowd. Fenris can hardly hope to blend in here, with the marks on him all but screaming about bad decisions made with more power than care for the consequences. Anyone can read the story of his life in a glance, but if there’s one thing to be said for all he’s seen and done, there is very little left in this world to intimidate him with. He doesn't need her good opinion, all he needs is an opportunity.

Kirkwall’s Shatterdome is nowhere near as advanced as what they have in Minrathous, with the Magisters still hoarding all that had been salvaged from the fallen Imperium. Indeed, it is the only place in Thedas where some knowledge was never lost at all, supported by contracts just as ancient that secure the best of what the dwarves have to offer - the strongest materials, the purest veins of lyrium. 

The dwarves build Jaegers faster for the Imperium, the launch schedule nearly twice as fast. The Rangers here are looking forward to Mark V machines, while Danarius piloted a Mark VII, and there was a Magister who claimed he had an VIII although he was more than a bit of an imbecile. Fenris has never seen a Mark II before Kirkwall, all those in the Imperium long since torn down for scrap. It’s obvious the Jaegers here are patched and repatched to the bitter end, with nothing wasted. Hadriana had hers rebuilt twice when she wasn’t impressed enough by its profile. Kirkwall's Jaegers are all close-combat machines, designed not to rely on a steady supply of ammunition or lyrium. He’s seen a few signs of long-range weapons, but nothing like the options the Imperium has to choose from.

Of course, here it’s simply a matter of killing the Kaiju and eliminating the threat. In Tevinter, there are… other goals. 

The candidates have gathered in a large room above the central hangar bay, the windows at their back looking down on the rows of Jaegers and the hundreds of men attending to them. Fenris has not noticed an ebb in the action the entire time he’s been here, though the countdown gives them two weeks at least before the next attack. Marshall Stannard is on a raised platform in front of them, and behind her stands a long, proud row of those Rangers who live and fight and die for the city.

“We are the line.” The room is silent, no one even daring to shift where they stand. “Kirkwall stands as the anchor of all the Free Marches. Our lives are offered up in service to the wall and all those who look to us to keep them alive. If you are seeking wealth, glory or fame, then I suggest you look elsewhere.”

Fenris wonders what the men and women around him are hoping to find. Many in the room arrived in pairs - brothers and sisters, fathers and sons, and more. A few of them look afraid, others are trying to hide it - a few succeed. Enough elves are mixed in to remind him of other rooms he’d rather not think about, and Fenris never knows what it is he sees or senses that goes even further back, some subtle reminder that has his hands threatening to curl into fists, the hair going up on the back of his neck. It could be anything at all, whatever detail sparks a misfire in the tattered remnants of his memory.

Marshall Stannard won’t mention that, he’s sure, though Fenris can’t believe they’ve solved all those problems. What the Drift does to a man, what it means to the pilot who ends up taking the brunt of the load. His whole life before he became a Ranger is gone, and there’s no telling if it was the Drift or the lyrium to do the worst of the damage. Even in the years he can remember, there are great swaths of time Fenris can recall as nothing but a useless, incoherent roar. It had been all he could do just to keep himself together, and standing, the weight of Danarius’ demands nearly as heavy as those of the Jaeger, and one battle blurring into the next, and the next.

He doesn’t know if it’s as bad for all of them. Once, he’d had a moment’s pause with one of the surviving crew, just long enough to ask. Danarius never lingered in his Jaeger after a battle, preferring a more comfortable position while the bodies were being cleared out and Fenris hung heavy in the straps, just trying to breathe. He’d asked what she remembered, if she knew how to hold on, if anyone knew. Fenris had told her how it all slipped away from him, all his days and years, and the woman had stared back, not in surprise or sadness or pity - but envy. 

He stopped asking, after that.

Fenris has a few fragments of the past - a scrap of song, a high, bright laugh and a gentle kiss - and the shame of knowing they’re not his memories is only matched by his determination to cling to them. He can shut his eyes and walk through fields he’s never seen, holding the hand of a brother he’s never had. Or run along a dock to a lake he’s never swam in, heels thunking hard enough to shake the boards as he throws himself into the delicious, frigid chill he’s never known. He puts a hand that is thicker and broader than his own on the curve of his wife’s stomach, to feel the child quickening inside, and a kick against his palm…

He never meant to steal them. Fenris tells himself he would give them all back if he could, but maybe… maybe it’s all right that he holds on now, with no one left to claim them. 

It’s so strange to be on this side of the room, when he’s stood among the Rangers in moments very much like this one, gazing out over a crowd of the desperate and determined and stupidly brave. Unlike Tevinter, though, where every Jaeger had a Magister within, not even a majority of these Rangers seem to be wearing the city’s colors. A few of them carry Kirkwall’s crest, but there are others bearing Nevarra’s colors, or Orlais, even an Antivan - although the Ranger herself might be Rivaini, with dark-hair and eyes and a Dalish elf at her side. The woman’s drivesuit is hardly standard issue, not with that much gold-edged plating, and somehow it manages to be the most skintight in the room. Her eyes catch on him in the crowd, and she winks.

“After all I have said, if you are still committed to joining our ranks, then I welcome you.” Meredith concludes, nothing in her tone to suggest open arms. “I will turn this over to the Vice-Marshall and you may-“

“Marshall Stannard?” A voice cuts in, crackling over a loudspeaker at the corner of the room. “We’ve just received word, Hercinia’s reporting Kaiju at the shoreline. A double attack.”

“Put it up on the screen.”

“Yes, Marshall.”

A murmur passes over the crowd and the Rangers both - the city is in Starkhaven’s domain, close enough to Kirkwall that the clock ought to cover both territories. Fenris knows what this is, though he hadn’t expected to see it outside of a war zone. 

The Breaches stretch all throughout the deep waters of Thedas, and though each city can keep an eye on their own, it is far more difficult even for the Imperium to track a Kaiju that doesn’t come through the closest rift, one that doesn’t attack the nearest city but chooses a more distant port. Par Vollen was not about to warn Minrathous should one of their Kaiju unexpectedly turn South, and perhaps this is one of theirs, taking the scenic route. Or Antiva or Rivain had slipped, a warning gone unnoticed, a Breach undetected. It happened, and when it happened it meant a Kaiju could make landfall almost anywhere, with next to no warning at all. 

Sets of panels sweep down across the windows, banks of monitors that flicker on to reveal the field of battle, the coast of the Marches from varying perspectives - it’s a clear day on the edge of the peninsula, and at least one camera appears to have a steady line on the bay. The Kaiju are close, two great, dark mountains facing down a pair of Jaegers.

“… Is that one Antivan? The dual-wielder.”

“Wonder what’s got him this far from home? Maybe he’s been chasing these bastards down the coast.”

“Damn, they are well past the ten-mile line. Bet a Warden caught it just in time.”

The Nevarran Rangers are talking, and have stepped down from the platform to get a closer view of the screens. Fenris glances around to see that all of the Rangers are now mingled in with the crowd, taking careful stock of the battle in the moment before it begins. Of course he’s doing the same - it’s instinct, even with the images as poor as they are, searching for the tell-tale marks of fire-spitters or barbed tails or Kaiju that can screech loud enough to shatter eardrums and knock copters from the sky. Anything that might tip the battle in favor of disaster. At the moment, it seems like the odds are holding steady - two Kaiju, yes, but they’re they’re not even Cat Four, not big enough to be worth naming. So it’s only a matter of jaws that can crack mountains and ridges of bone like triple-forged steel. 

The anticipation sings across his skin, as tangible as the lyrium - Fenris misses this. So much of what he was belonged to Danarius, but the actual fighting? It bored the Magister. In the heat of battle the man’s thoughts tended to wander the most, leaving Fenris to throw himself into the fray alone. He was fast, he was strong and good, and in the instant he struck the final blow Fenris could look out over the seas and the world and the far horizon and he felt so _light_. Unburdened by himself and by the world, and for one shining moment flung far beyond even the Imperium’s reach.

Freedom. He knows the word now.

“All right, all right. The shoreline’s for shit, but you know what you have to do - now make it happen.”

The low, urgent command comes from his other side, a Ranger standing right next to him but with her eyes fixed on the screen, focused fully on the second Jaeger. Its armor is white enough to blind in the sun, and it is the closest Fenris has seen yet to a weapon with any of the pomp and circumstance of the Magisters, all curved plating and a shining helm and the profile of a woman’s face carved nearly two stories high into its midsection.

“ _Andraste’s Grace_.” A voice purrs close to his ear, the Rivaini pilot at his left and giving him a quick, worryingly playful grin of welcome, though her eyes don’t leave the fight for long. “Starkhaven’s finest. Ranger Vael’s the third son of the Prince. Nice accent. Lovely biceps. Tragic vow of celibacy. Name’s Isabela, by the way.”

Fenris glances over, marveling at her choice of biography and introduction, and by the time his eyes flick back to the action the fight is well and truly on. The Antivan Jaeger has engaged its target, knocking the first Kaiju back with a stunning series of blows, but the beast retaliates with shattering force - the cameras flicker, static knocking the best image to momentary pieces and there’s a sharp murmur in the crowd as they search the screens, trying to keep track of the action. Fenris can see what they mean about the shoreline, the ground beneath the Jaeger’s feet obviously pocked with holes and weak spots, threatening to send it off balance with every step.

“He should have fired by now. Shit shit _shit_ \- they didn’t have time to charge the bow.”

The Ranger on his right is still murmuring, hands fisted and half-raised as if she wants to fight the battle from here. Fenris doesn’t recognize the crest she wears - Ferelden, maybe - and there’s a shout from the crowd, the Antivan now down on one knee and taking a beating, while the Starkhaven Jaeger grapples with its own Kaiju, trying to reach him. A battle can turn so fast, even with the best of Rangers, and if one of the Jaegers goes down it’s almost certainly a death sentence for the other.

 _Andraste’s Grace_ has a moment of luck and skill and very good timing, throwing an extra burst of power into a blow that knocks one Kaiju back into the other and sends them both flying. 

“Anyone know how they score a caber toss?” A few soft laughs, but the Rangers aren’t cheering yet and the rest of the room is following their lead. It isn’t over until the Kaiju stop moving. 

The Antivan Jaeger slowly gets to its feet, and there’s a murmur of relief that passes through the room, rising into a sudden, horrified gasp as the briefly downed Kaiju staggers to its feet and grabs the other monster by its tail, swinging it like a morning-star and launching it at _Andraste’s Grace_. The impact is hard enough that one of the copter’s cameras goes instantly dark, no telling if the machine is still airborne. The view from the shore shows little better, as Jaeger and Kaiju twist together, stumbling back - and the shelf beneath them gives way, both of them disappearing in mid-strike beneath the waves.

The room is silent. At his side, the Ranger is still, and pale, and even Isabela worries at her lower lip.

No matter how strong or steady the bond, Kaiju are always going to be faster than Jaegers. Fighting off-shore in the shallows is the only chance at a level playing field. Of course there are seals to keep the water out and the crush depth of a Jaeger is considerable but being under the water with a rampaging Kaiju is the last place anyone wants to be. 

“Don’t you do this to me, Vael. Don’t you dare.” The Ferelden Ranger breathes it like a prayer, and she’s likely not the only one asking for aid as the moments tick by and the Antivan Jaeger struggles to stay in the fight. Whatever the initial damage was, it’s getting worse and he doesn’t have the power to finish the job, not landing the blows he ought or dodging the ones he needs to. The support choppers are coming in with guns blazing but it’s just enough to annoy the Kaiju, not to do any real damage and sooner or later something’s going to come back out of the water.

If they’re smart they’re already taking shelter in Hercinia, and there’s a new tension rising in the room, a few glances in the Marshall’s direction - Kirkwall’s close enough that they’ll have to deploy, if this goes the way it’s headed. The Antivan takes a bad blow, and another, until it’s just a matter of time.

It’s hard to watch a Jaeger go down, painfully slow yet shockingly fast, and when the claws start tearing in deep it sounds like pure agony. 

Magisters only work together when it’s politically convenient, or profitable, or when there isn’t a better plan. Fenris has been there, for what can really only be called executions, when a Magister’s too stupid to realize all his allies have turned against him and are all too happy to stand back and let the Kaiju enjoy themselves. He’s always told himself he shouldn’t care, that he doesn’t care. He shouldn’t listen to the Antivan fighter being rent apart and remember a Magister pleading for his life when he realized Danarius had not come as backup, the man screaming for longer than it ever seemed possible. The noise had mixed with the screech of rending metal and Fenris knew there were more voices he couldn’t hear, all those Indentured trapped inside, with the terror from his own crew beating like fists at the inside of his head. 

Fenris has gone mad a thousand times. He’s not sure how he keeps coming back.

A fist punches out from the water at the edge of the shelf line - and it’s armored, gleaming white and brilliant and a fierce cry of joy fills the room as _Andraste’s Grace_ lifts itself back up onto steady ground, water sluicing down in a thousand tiny waterfalls as it brings one great arm up, its hand pointed toward the Kaiju that has paused in its attack, looking as surprised as a nightmare can. 

“Deep breath,” the Ferelden Ranger says, “deep breath, focus, and kill this son of a bitch.”

 _Andraste’s Grace_ draws back its other hand, the air slowly lighting up, electric arcs dancing in the space between as the charge grows into a near-solid line of brilliant light - a lyrium-powered beam weapon, impressive even by Tevinter’s standards - and the Kaiju lunges barely two steps before the Jaeger releases the bolt, a white-hot arrow that damn near decapitates its target, a perfect shot. A few stray trickles of energy leap across the meaty limbs as what’s left of the great monster slows, and tips, and crashes into the surf.

A cheer from the recruits, but the Rangers are silent as _Andraste’s Grace_ moves slowly to the other Jaeger’s side. The Antivan craft looks damaged, certainly out of commission but not completely destroyed. The conn-pod, though, it’s not always easy to tell -

“Marshall Stannard, I’ve got news coming in. All Kaiju defeated. All Rangers alive and accounted for.”

The voice continues on, that Kirkwall’s presence won’t be necessary but it’s drowned out beneath the roar from the floor. Fenris has never had this before. He’s been relieved when the fight is over, grateful to feel the weight of the Jaeger slip away, to begin the quiet task of putting himself back together, but never this sense of celebration, or connection. 

“Yes! Yes yes _yes_! That is how you do it! That is how my boy gets it done!”

The Ferelden Ranger has been pounding exuberantly on his shoulder, and freezes up only when she finally takes her eyes away from the screen long enough to look at what she’s punching.

“Oh… uh, hey. Hi.”

Her smile is crooked and bright, startling in this grim, gray place. Fenris knows next to nothing of Ferelden, and none of it complimentary. The Magisters say it’s a mud pit of filthy, barely literate barbarians, no more responsible for the fall of the Imperium than a horsefly could kill a Kaiju - and it’s true enough that there’s little art in her manner - copper-red hair tied back in a simple short tail, her skin tanned and windburned. Her gloves are off, and her hands are rough and chapped, the nails cut haphazardly short and underlined with grime. Hadriana would have set herself on fire before appearing in such a state - and when the Ranger notices his gaze she she quickly tucks her hands behind her back.

“Yeah, I was supposed to clean up… got a bit distracted.”

He has the feeling ‘a bit distracted’ might be her standard operating procedure.

“What’s that make it for the _Grace_ now, seven?” Isabela calls out.

“Nine.” The Ferelden replies. “I should pay him a visit when he hits a dozen. Maybe give that Jaeger of his a go.”

“You know him?” Fenris asks, every moment he stands here reminding him just how much he is not in Tevinter. The Rangers seem only too happy to remain with the candidates around them, or with each other, and there must be subtle allegiances and dangers he can’t see but it all seems so simple, so easy compared to all he’s known - Seheron, he thinks, it reminds him of Seheron and that’s why it suddenly hurts to breathe.

“Sebastian came in here, what - a year, year and a half ago?” The Ferelden glances at Isabela for confirmation. “Had trouble with the Drift, couldn’t stay stable, and the thought of not fighting didn’t make that any better. Third son, he was carrying lots of bullshit…” The Ranger waves a hand to describe it all, with that crooked smile again. “Obviously, he got over it.”

Did she Drift with him? And yet she’s here, and he had seen her on the stage with another red-haired Ranger. Fenris had assumed they were sisters - and he wants to ask but it’s not exactly well-advised, and unfortunately little else comes to mind. The moment of awkward silence hangs as he wonders if the man he was before was any better at this.

“So, I forget… does the sheaf of wheat come before the goat?”

He doesn’t know what to make of that, but the Ferelden Ranger certainly does, never looking away from him as she punches Isabela in the shoulder. Hard. The woman laughs, and then it’s Stannard’s voice carrying over the crowd, giving orders to the Rangers and orders to the recruits and Isabela curses quietly, muttering about meetings and downtime and inconvenient Kaiju bastards as she turns away.

“Well, then… I, uh… guess we’ll see you in a week, then.” The Ferelden Ranger says, taking two steps backward and then turning to join the crowd. Fenris watches her, all the way to the door. She looks back, grins again, and then she’s gone. 

The recruits are lining up, splitting off into pairs and those who’ve come alone and he can only imagine they’re going to work the solo recruits twice as hard, no need to go easy on those who are less likely to be Drift compatible anyway. Fenris isn't worried, but the man standing behind him is, and glances meaningfully toward the door where the Rangers have departed. 

“Hey, what’d she say to you? How’d you get so lucky?”

Fenris doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know her name.


	4. Chapter 4

“Afternoon, boys.” Hawke ambles into the lab, Ser Pounce darting forward and then back from the trail of water she’s dripping behind her. It’s a fight to keep the heavy bag from dropping off her shoulder to the floor, but she manages to do it without too much noise or accidentally squishing the kitten. “How’s the mad science coming along todaaaa - Aveline! Hi!” 

She freezes, trying for her best innocent smile, though there’s really not much point to pretending. Aveline’s been in the Drift with her over a dozen times by now, she knows full well what Hawke does with her down time, and though she doesn’t approve - _really_ doesn’t approve - she keeps that to the Drift, which means she also knows exactly why Hawke needs to do it, and so she’s never said a word.

“I didn’t… miss something, did I?” Hawke says. “I thought we had a few days until the next run-through.”

Jaegers are the toughest and most formidable machines in existence, but their upkeep is a surprisingly delicate and constant process, especially when it comes to linking man and machine. Aveline is in the top half of her drivesuit, hooked up to a dozen machines all spitting out numbers across half as many screens and Hawke doesn’t understand any of it, more than happy to leave the science to the scientists. Anders has yet to look in her direction, fingers clicking away at the keyboard.

“Just a recalibration of the skin-to-suit relays. I found a way to shave off a second or two. I’ll do yours up once I’ve got the data on hers.” 

Karl is perched at his own computer, with a similar bundle of wires trailing out but all of these leading to where Bethany sits, the synaptic mapping overlay carefully interwoven through her hair. It’s probably twice as sensitive as the ones they use to pilot the Jaegers, all of it custom kit - this is Karl’s pet project, and Hawke’s stepped into this moment too often for it to break her heart but oh, it still does every time.

“Hey there, sis.”

“You are bleeding.” Bethany says.

“Bleeding?” That’s enough to pull Anders from the controls, and he frowns at her from across the room. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “Nothing fell off that I can’t afford to lose.”

Anders keeps staring, until Hawke lifts both hands up, wiggling her fingers to prove she’s all right. It’s just a shallow scrape on her arm, is all, a bit of an unlucky handshake with the friendly edge of a jagged rock, and there’s plenty in the lab to fix her up.

Every Jaeger brings their entourage along for the ride, and each team in Kirkwall has its own dedicated lab space, the place for the drivesuits to be repaired or improved, or for the Jaeger ground crews to store extra gear and special equipment - the place to do anything much that needs doing, with techs who know them down to their brain scans. Hawke’s been here long enough for Karl and Anders to feather their little nest with all sorts of odds and ends, with stacks of books and electronic equipment, bits of Kaiju in various jars, old reports and cat toys and new reports and /more/ equipment all jostling for position.

The Jaeger program’s not an exact science, even after all this time. The best they’ve got of what the Ancient Imperium left behind is a jumbled mix of whatever they can reverse-engineer and whatever the dwarves feel like sharing, though they can be tetchy as hell when it comes to explaining just how anything actually works. The Shatterdomes are - no surprise - the most technologically advanced parts of the city, but even here they have the occasional rolling blackout, and moving away from the city it goes from lyrium power to horse-drawn cart in no time. 

Anders says everything in the old Imperium was connected, all the people, all the industry, everything humming along bundles of wire or invisible beams - there were even machines hanging way up past the clouds, fired off into the sky, but the last of those fell and burned to dust before her grandmother’s grandmother was born. 

“You should at least ask if you’re needed before you run off like that.” Aveline says, watching as Hawke slaps down a few bandages, quickly wrapping up her arm. “I woke up and you were already gone.”

Hawke left well before sunrise. It takes more than eleven hours round-trip if she wants to get anywhere worth going, and that’s with hitching rides both ways from Varric. He isn’t any less worried about her little adventure hobby than Aveline, but it’s not like all of them aren’t risking their lives more days than not.

“I’m crap at downtime, you know that. Besides, the Kaiju are sticking to schedule, so there’s nothing left to do but wait for the recruits.”

Three more days, and she gets to see who’s left standing. The other Rangers place bets sometimes, but she hasn’t bothered to check the odds on her favorite. It isn’t like Isabela’s going to bet against her anyway.

“You’ve got that letter to write.”

Hawke grimaces. “What’s that, Av? It’s almost like you said something I don’t care about.”

If she’s going to get glared at, she might as well deserve it. Aveline doesn’t disappoint, leveling one of her better disapproving frowns.

“It’s not proper to keep a king waiting, Hawke.” 

Hawke sighs, dropping into the nearest chair, toeing herself around in a slow circle. She knows what this is about, receiving a friendly royal greeting. Orlais has been grumbling ever since Ferelden got itself a new king, and they’ve had eyes on the country ever since it became one. Hawke has never had to fight anything but Kaiju in a Jaeger and Maker willing, that won’t change anytime soon. It doesn't seem like Ferelden’s trying to provoke anything, but the king’s clearly seeing which favors he has a chance of calling in.

“We still fly Ferelden colors. I think that says what needs to be said. I can’t even believe he remembered we were here.”

“Well, he did, and I’m not about to let you weasel out of this.”

“But I’m _so good_ at weaseling.” Hawke kicks off the floor, sending the chair spinning fast. “Dear King Alistair, I’m very glad you’re still alive and not a useless tosspot and my dog thinks you have nice hair. Love, Hawke.”

“P.S.” Anders says. “You smile like a git. Wardens don’t smile, look it up.”

“I think he has a fine smile.” Karl says, and stands up, slowly stretching out his back. He takes a few steps to the chair, gently removing the the overlay. Without all the extra material to make it battle worthy, it almost looks pretty, some fairy diadem. “Well my dear, I thank you again for your patience. I’ve collected a generous amount of data, and I look forward to spending another long evening with your ever-delightful brain.”

“Don’t let him flatter you, Bethany.” Anders says. “A new frontal lobe passes by with an interesting wrinkle, and before you know it you’re on the curb.”

“I would never.”

It’s nice that they laugh, and make jokes, and talk to Hawke’s sister like… like she’s still there, still a person. Karl believes it, at least. He won’t entertain talk of her being gone, of her brain being burnt out or damaged beyond repair. He’s never once shown any sign that he’s lost hope, that he’s anywhere close to giving up, and Hawke’s not sure how long she’d make it without that steady certainty.

“How’re you doing, Beth? Having a good day?” 

Hawke flips a few strands away from her sister’s blank eyes. She’d never had the impulse to fuss until now, all these silly, nervous gestures trying to fix what’s well beyond her ability to repair. Bethany can tell, if anything being Tranquil only makes her more observant, without her own needs or hopes or fears getting in the way. Hawke does what she can to smile, to keep things away from a conversation they’ve had a dozen times before. As if there’s anywhere else for her to go. As if Hawke would ever let that happen.

“I am fine. Orana is late.”

“Stuck between ration lines, I bet.” Karl says.

The Rangers eat well, it’s necessary to keep them in top fighting form, and the family name’s got enough to take care of Bethany and Orana, but even at the best of times there’s no simple trip to the markets and it’s been a poor season all around, even by Kirkwall standards. At least she’s got the dog with her, so there won’t be anything worse to worry about than a delay.

“I was supposed to go to the storeroom to help unpack deliveries.” Bethany says. “I would prefer to be of use.”

The closest Bethany can come now, to a want or a need.

“I can take her, Hawke.” Aveline says. “I’m going in that direction anyway, and I think Anders is done here.”

“Finished for now.” Anders says, leaning back in his chair to rub at his eyes under his dark glasses. The room’s kept dim for him as much as they can, but some days it helps more than others. Hawke scoops up Ser Pounce and puts the kitten on his owner’s shoulder, Anders reaching up to scratch behind his ears.

“So, have you heard anything?” Hawke says, as Aveline slowly unhooks herself from what she’s wearing of the drivesuit, mostly the upper part, Karl moving to assist. “How’s that recruit of yours doing? David? Donald?”

“Donnic.” Aveline says flatly, “you _know_ it’s Donnic and… he’s fine. Everything’s fine The first simulation trials were this morning. He passed, of course.”

“Yeah, he’s done sims before, right?”

“ _Hawke._ “ 

The Drift's taken care of the rest, the conversation - argument - they’d need to have otherwise. Hawke already knows that Donnic’s been trying to get Aveline to put him forward as a Ranger candidate for the better part of a year, and she’s dragged her heels so long that he’s just gone and signed up for the whole regimen, to reach her side on his own. 

Hawke’s felt what it’s like, to know that he’s a good man, a good soldier - maybe more, but all that knowing is undercut by other thoughts of another good man. How while Hawke and her sister had been busy desperately trying to beat back the edge of the Blight in the harbor, Aveline had been miles away from her Jaeger and from Wesley - not even the Rangers had known, no one had seen it coming like it did - and he’d died when the Kaiju hit the coast, one of several towns just torn apart. Aveline still had his Academy shield, a graduation token found dented and charred in the rubble, because they’d never found the body. 

Aveline has a perfect Drift record, not the slightest hint of rabbiting, nothing going wrong from their very first time together, after Bethany, when even Hawke didn’t know what might happen next. She’s been in steel bunkers less solid than Aveline’s mind, everything steady and reassuring. The both of them are strong, and focused, committed to protecting the city and each other. The both of them are grieving, and pushing through it, or past it, or whatever it’s called when the work goes on but the hurt’s still there. Aveline’s come a long way, and Hawke’s glad that Donnic’s finally got enough sense to just take that final step out of her hands.

“I’m still your partner, Hawke, before anything else. Whatever happens, that’s not going to change.”

Not that Meredith was ever big on cheery speeches, but even she had seemed a bit more with the unrelenting doom than usual. Hawke hasn’t quite gathered the strength yet for another round of Guess-What-Marshall-Stannard’s-Not-Telling.

“No worries.” She grins. “I’m sure you can think of a few positions for Donald to fill while he waits. Or, you know, we’ll brainstorm together, next time we’re in the Drift.”

“Wow, just when I think I’ve run out of all the things in the world to not hear.” Anders says. 

Aveline only gives her the usual level, patient I-regret-the-day-you-met-Isabela stare, though she knows the Rivaini pilot’s more of a co-conspirator than any kind of instigator.

“I’ll see you later, Hawke - and finish that letter!”

“I’ll let the dog write it. He’s witty.” She calls, and then Aveline is out the door, with Bethany a step behind. 

Hawke kicks at the floor, sending her chair across the room to Karl’s table, and then back to Anders’ side of the room, Ser Pounce back to the floor and scampering at shadows in the far corner. It’s amazing they’ve never lost him in the carnage that is Anders’ version of a storage system. 

Karl doesn’t say anything, and Hawke doesn’t ask, trusting him to update her with anything new about Bethany even if it’s hard not to pelt him with questions after every session. A bit easier today, when she’s got some revelations of her own.

“I found it.”

“Found what?” Anders says, still staring at his screen.

“Not sure. I found something.”

The bag feels even heavier than it did on the trip up, but Hawke’s just as careful as she gets it on the table.

“How far down did you get?” Anders says, finally spinning around in his chair.

“I almost didn’t make it back in time. Varric wasn’t real happy. I found a new passage, I don’t know if it opened up or I just never saw it before. Definitely not on any maps. It was… massive, whatever it was for.” Hawke notices a claw mark in the bag, a little surprised there’s just the one. “I think I made some new friends.”

The Kaiju bring other creatures with them, either carried along in the water from wherever it is they come from or clinging to them when they surface. Thankfully they’re all small, the biggest ones no larger than a draft horse, and they prefer to keep to the darkest places, underground… which does make exploring the secret hidey-holes of the Ancient Magisters a bit more fun. Still, it means they all haven’t been picked clean of valuables, and in the case of a beautiful little slice of hell called the Bone Pits, the lower levels have hardly been touched at all.

“I wish you wouldn’t go alone.” Karl says, tapping gently at her bandaged arm. It’s almost certainly as stupid as it seems, but she’s faster on her own, and even having Aveline know what they’re up to feels risky, as much for her sake as for theirs. Hawke’s pretty good at tucking certain thoughts away from the new recruits, though they’re usually too busy trying to process whatever’s in front of them to even think about getting curious.

Besides, for all her scrounging, Hawke hasn’t had all that much to hide - until today.

“So, what did you…” Anders says, moving toward the bag, “it’s more than just bits and pieces, isn't it?”

All the old Kirkwall stories suggest that a lot of very important Magisters did a lot of very bad things here, and for all they know about the Imperium, they were probably keen on leaving some evidence behind. What’s the use of being a twenty-four karat gold-plated bastard if it can’t echo through the ages? Hawke’s been searching caves and catacombs when the opportunity arises, because if there’s any information to be found about Tranquility, if even one Magister figured out how to reverse it...

She slips the bag free, dumping out a usual few bits of Ancient Tevinter tech that might prove interesting, anything she saw that looked like it might have held information, even if it’s probably corrupted past retrieval, or they have no way of knowing how to get it out again. 

The real prize, though, nearly dwarfs the table she sets it on, the book metal-bound at the edges with a thick cover that seems waterproof - as much of a chest as a binding, and Hawke is very careful with the latches and even more careful as she pulls it open, pages that possibly haven’t seen topside since the fall of the Imperium. 

“Maker’s balls, what am I even looking at…” Anders breathes, moving in close, and soon both he and Karl are wearing gloves, turning each page with exquisite care as Hawke looks on, Ser Pounce purring in her arms. It doesn’t look like anything to her except complicated, lines of text and even more esoteric diagrams competing for the page space, some faded and damaged by age and time but for the most part it’s held up surprisingly well.

“Are you catching any of this?” Karl says, speaking in the same hushed tones. Hawke is fairly certain they’ve forgotten all about her. “It’s a cipher, but I’ve never seen...”

The other fun part about chipping away at the past is how insanely paranoid the Tevinters were, well before they even had anything to be paranoid about. Nearly everything that’s ever been found is encrypted - each Magister with their own codes, and occasionally even changing those codes from one document to the next. It baffles her how they ever managed to get anything done.

“I think some of these are _actual notes_. It’s not - they bound up the working copy.” Anders says, and he’s excited now, though still moving with exquisite care, one finger hovering over the page, muttering a litany that’s as vulgar as it is reverential, until he chokes on the last _holy fucking shit_.

“Karl. Look at that. The rest of it is gibberish, but this bit - the code, I’ve seen it before and the name…”

“Corypheus.” Karl says, which also sounds quite a bit like _holy fucking shit._

“Pass the Ranger a clue, boys?” Hawke says.

“Corypheus.” Anders repeats, the way he always does when Hawke ought to be smarter than she is. “As in, Magister Corypheus. As in, these might… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we could be looking at the blueprints for the very first Blight.” 

“Holy fucking shit.” Hawke says.

“Yeah.” Anders says, taking a few slow, deliberate breaths. “How many of these books did you say were down there?”

“Sixty? Maybe more.”

No one speaks for a moment.

“It might not be the same Corypheus.” Karl says, always the realist. “Maker knows the Tevinters could afford to invest in a few more names.”

“But if it is…”

“Anders.”

“If it _is_ , Karl…” Anders slaps his hand on the table, far away from the precious tome, and runs his fingers through his hair, and he’s laughing just a little. “Do you know how many years we’d get in the Aeonar just for _touching_ this book? We’d never see the light of day again.”

“We live in Kirkwall. What’s this ‘light of day’ you speak of?” Hawke says, but she’s reeling too, and not because she’s worried about the Templars or their consequences. If it is what Anders says it is, then it’s like any other piece of old tech, and if they can find out what the Magisters did they can find a way to _undo_ it. Stop the Blights. Maybe even seal the Breaches for good. 

It doesn’t feel like hope, she can’t quite allow that yet, but at least it was worth dragging this damn thing back to the surface, even if she’s not certain where they’ll store the other fifty-nine.

“I told you I found something.”


	5. Chapter 5

The jungle is humid and sticky hot as Fenris shivers, trembling with his hands bloody to the elbow and the bodies of the Fog Warriors on the ground all around him. In the distance, he can hear a cry - maybe a bird, maybe one of the tiny creatures of the jungle he still has never seen - and he wants to think that maybe they are not all here, maybe one escaped but he knows it is not true. Everything is so quiet. He never got used to the noise of this place, but now the only other sound is his own breathing, harsh gasps that gain him no air. He feels something warm and slick and dripping in his hand and tosses it away without looking, listens to it hit the ground.

“Do you know who you are?”

Fenris knows that voice, other Qunari among the Fog Warriors but none who sound like that, as if the earth itself had deigned to speak its mind. Except it can’t be coming from the body at his feet - that Qunari is the first one he killed. 

His tongue sticks against his dry lips, and Fenris’ stomach twists as the world sways, bodies crumpled and twisted all around him, the air thick with woodsmoke, the sound of peaceful laughter, breakfast cooking, the ever-constant woodsmoke - no, no that’s not right. He’s got it out of order again, that’s not _here_ and that’s not _now_ no matter how much he wants it to be. 

He doesn’t remember the moment just before this, just panic and pain and… resignation. Acceptance like the rope around his throat, snapping tight. Knowing it would come to this, that it all could lead nowhere else, with invisible hands already rending those few moments of happiness to tatters.

“Do you know who you are, _kadan_?”

The Qunari called them all _kadan_. Everyone was a friend, a brother, worthy of standing beside him. It was the reason he’d broke faith with the Qun, and walked away. 

He had no name, one of the _beresaad_ in his life before. One unfortunate mission had gained him the cracked and splintered remnant where his left horn should have been, though he did not regret the injury. He seemed to regret nothing, no shame or anger, only a sense of duty, and honor, and great kindness. 

His life had been in the Qun, of course, service and obedience and what had slowly become a thousand tiny contradictions: a _bas_ dead at his feet in a doorway, with a room full of little ones cowering in fear beyond. A _kabethari_ with a beautiful whistle he’d listened to for hours, until the day she’d come back full of _quamek_ and empty of song. Chantry pilgrims with a kindness and open humility to match anyone he’d ever known - Qunari in all but name - and there came a point when he could not see even that slight difference, when he had to face that it no longer mattered. A day the Qun became an imperfect thing, and he realized that the only true obedience lay in defiance, in leaving all that he had known to find a better path. So he had walked nameless in to the jungles of Seheron, to set his life to searching for a perfect truth. 

Until Fenris had murdered him.

“I told you we should have left him there to rot. You can’t trust what the Magisters get their claws in. I _told you_ he’d get us all killed. Nobody ever fucking listens to me.”

Fenris spins sharply - Nari’s on the ground behind him, with a bloody hole in the middle of her chest and more dried blood catching flies at the corner of her mouth. One even glistens like a macabre ornament at the tip of her pointed ear. She was the only one of the Fog Warriors who’d always kept her distance, the only one who’d never taught him anything or asked him questions or even spoke with him when she could avoid it. Yet she’d attacked him at the end - he remembers that - when she might have run and escaped. 

He’d run her through so easily. 

His throat works, but he can’t imagine what sort of words might come out. Her eyes are clouded over in death, but the hate’s still there.

“You already killed me, Fenris. Don’t you dare make me listen to you whine about it.”

“I swear I didn’t teach him that.”

The familiar voice makes the hair go up on the back of his neck and Fenris is reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have even as he turns and digs his toes into the soil and prepares to fight - but Danarius isn’t even looking at him, poised on a riverbank a dozen yards away - _there was never a river here_. He’s poking a stick into the stream, with Hadriana at his side.

The river bends toward him, before disappearing back beneath the canopy of leaves, but there is no water - only a thick emptiness, a depthless gleaming black that has Fenris leaning away in a disgust that rides the edge of panic. He can’t look away from it, the jagged slash tearing down through far more than simple earth.

“You should have had his tongue cut out.” Hadriana says. “Decima had it done to all of hers. It makes things quite peaceful.”

“Oh, he has his uses the way he is.” Danarius says, and chuckles lightly in a way that makes Fenris’ vision go white with rage. 

“What… what are you doing here?” Somehow, he manages to strangle the words free, still tense, still waiting for the inevitable - but Hadriana is coming towards him slow, unarmed - and then she’s moving past him, to where Nari is lying, now with a spear pinning to the ground. 

“Stop.” Fenris says, not entirely sure to who, or why. “Stop this - this isn’t right.”

“Oh yes, let’s get hung up on the details now.” Nari says. “Was he always this bad?”

“Worse, usually.” Hadriana says, chatting quite companionably with the corpse. Her hand curves around the shaft of the spear. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”  


“By all means.” The weapon makes a sick, wet sound as it pulls free, but Nari seems not to notice. “If anyone needs me, I’ll just be over here decomposing.”

“It won’t take long, in the jungle.” Danarius mentions absently. “I’m surprised you’re not bones already.”

He expects Hadriana to attack now that she has a weapon in her hand - _why is she here she shouldn’t she wasn’t here she wasn’t_ \- but she moves past him with the same lazy indifference and then she’s back at the river, prodding the spear down into the darkness . Fenris can see it clinging to the pole like ink or oil every time she lifts her arms to try again, and every now and then she’ll hook something, and bring it behind her to deposit on the bank. The grass crackles and burns as the darkness drains away from what it little more than garbage - a chunk of twisted metal, a mangled heap of circuits and pipes, a skeleton, the tip of the spear caught in its ribcage. Hadriana shakes it free with a look of disgust.

“We’re getting nowhere.” She says. “We’ve been at this forever.”

“Patience, girl.” Danarius says, and for all he wants to stay away from the river Fenris finds himself inching closer, trying to determine their purpose. “A little discipline might gain you the world.”

“Patience is for fools who can’t do things properly.” Hadriana scoffs, jabbing at the sluggish ichor. “Maybe if we give it a gift it will want to cooperate.”

She looks up, and oh, Fenris knows what that expression means, as she measures him down to the last thin copper.

“Hadriana.” Danarius warns, the patient voice of a father rebuking a naughty child. “Do as you like on your own time. We have work to be done.”

He doesn’t want to move closer, but it does not seem to matter here, the world bending in on itself to drag him right up to the edge. 

“… what are you looking for?”

Danarius has still not looked up. “The end, of course. It’s got to be in here somewhere. Everything else is.”

“Do you know who you are?” The deep rumble seems to sound out across the whole of the jungle. “Do you know, Fenris?”

“He knows what he is!” Nari says. “We _all_ know what he is!”

“No.” Fenris says, with his hands out and away from his body as if somehow a little distance can make them not his.

“Nothing in this world happens without sacrifice.” Danarius says.

“I am _nothing_ like you.” Fenris snarls back.

“No, we actually accomplish something.” Hadriana snaps back. “You’re really the one who’s so much better than just another link in the chain?”

“I am not this.” He throws a hand to the river, the surge of lyrium power cascading down to his fingertips with the motion. “I am _not this_.”

“… If you say so.” Danarius says, and his mild tone is more than any man should have to bear. Fenris stalks forward, and no this is not how it happened but damn how it happened and damn him and damn the Magister most of all - and he is startled when Hadriana steps in the way. She wanted Danarius’ favor more than anything, but it never had a thing to do with loyalty. 

He drives his hand through her with great satisfaction - but she only tips her head, staring down with a patient sigh, as if enduring the debate of a less than stellar pupil. She’d never taken on many acolytes - couldn’t stand them for more than a few days at a time. 

“There, is that better? Can we talk like civilized people now?”

He can’t move. Fenris isn’t sure what he’d do if he could. Hadriana leans in closer, and her voice a trove of secrets he doesn’t want to know.

“No more playing victim, Fenris. That’s the reward. That’s what you win. Enjoy being just as shitty as the rest of us.”

“I… no. _No_.”

It’s supposed to be a growl, but it comes out with an edge of panic and he knows he’d run if she’d let him. 

He did run, didn’t he. He didn’t even look back. 

“Oh, you poor stupid creature. What are you going to do with yourself?” Hadriana’s nails are cool, the back of her hand sliding against his cheek. As bad as she was when she was heartless, it was so much worse when she tried to pretend otherwise. “Do you know who you are, Fenris? Right down at the core, do you really?”

He wants to pretend that he won’t answer her, rather than that he can’t. Hadriana smiles as if she knows the truth anyway, and there’s a hard and ugly pity there.

“You might want to find out, and I’d do it sooner rather than later. While you still have a later.” Her hand comes up to wrap around his arm, still buried in her chest, and her smile turns cool and mocking and familiar. “If you even can. How are you not past all this by now? It’s only blood, Fenris. It washes right out.”

“I don’t… I don’t want…”

When has that ever mattered to her? Hadriana pulls, and his hand comes out sheathed in armor, the gleaming Ranger’s suit hiding everything underneath. He’s spotless, and she smiles approvingly. 

“See? Good as new.”

\-----------------------------------

Fenris’ eyes snap open, an instant before the floodlights overhead burn the world into a flood of white and groaning curses. The man sent to rouse them obviously takes great pleasure in his work, roaring gleefully as he hammers at the steel bars of the bunks, rattling them until they ring.

“Speed it up, children! Rise and shine! If there were Kaiju in the harbor, you’d already be fish food!”

Fenris is grateful for the cold, for the room that smells only of steel, and how quickly the call to action chases the lingering remnants of the dream away. The clock on the opposite wall shows a few minutes past two in the morning. He hadn’t bothered getting undressed or even sleeping under his blankets. He’d expected this, and Fenris is on the ground and at attention while half the room is still staggering around blind. He flexes his hands once, and pushes every other thought aside. He won’t need them for this. 

Training officially begins with an hour run around the base, the night crews cheering them on when they hit the perimeter of the docking bay, chilled by the spray from the sea and stumbling in the gloom, forced ahead at a vicious pace. After that it’s push-ups and pull-ups and the inevitable throw-up, some poor recruit near the end of the line gagging over the edge of the deck. It’s punishment, plain and simple, the most expedient way of seeing who wants this the most.

At times, Fenris thinks there’s not much left of him but endurance, and even as they’re shouting insults and orders down the line it feels more like a child’s game, all make-believe. He knows no one here will actually touch him, let alone anything worse. In Tevinter, there’d already be at least one body on the ground. There certainly wouldn’t be breakfast waiting when the sun finally rose.

The cafeteria might just be the strangest place of all, the sharpest measure of just how far he’s come. In the Imperium, Fenris had his place at Danarius’ table - or behind it, at any rate, waiting silently in the hopes of scrabbling for a few scraps once the man had taken his leave. Of course the Magisters did not eat together, let alone with their lessers. Nothing like where he finds himself now, the common area loud and rowdy and seemingly free of nearly all boundaries, with Rangers and crews alike all sharing the same meal at the same table. 

The Shatterdome runs on shifts, so there’s always fresh Rangers ready to fight, and he sees the Orlesian team at one table, and a pair of Kirkwall’s own pilots at another. The food is solid fare, a bit underspiced for his tastes but there’s plenty of it, a pile of meat on his plate like he hasn’t seen in a long time, and - miracle of miracles - even from a recognizable bit of the animal.

Fenris still eats as fast as he can, eyes down and ears fixed on any new bit of conversation, though for the first day most everyone is too weary to do more than shovel food and gather their strength, spending the rest of the day carrying heavy bits of machinery back and forth to no particular purpose, just to see who will give up and go.

The Marshall hadn’t been wrong - men and women are already losing interest, even more so when the first midnight run becomes the second midnight run, coming to rest in the hangar only to be ordered right back out again. A few of them seem only to be interested in grabbing as many free meals as they can before they drop.

On the second day the schedule shifts, and they’re allowed to sleep until nearly sunrise. When they hit the cafeteria in the morning there’s a table in one corner nearly full to bursting with white coats, men and women trying to eat around books and notes and intense debates. They’re subdued, and keep entirely to themselves but Fenris knows exactly who and what they are. 

At least here in Kirkwall, there are borders and boundaries and sanity to such matters. Science is not allowed absolute dominion over man, with even more who argue against reclaiming _any_ of the knowledge the Magisters so gladly spill blood for. The scientists in the rest of Thedas aren’t allowed to build weapons at a whim, or to treat lives with no more care than snuffing candle flames. The Jaegers are seen as a necessary evil, but beyond that most technology is considered more a danger than a tool, to be used with caution if at all. Even in the cafeteria, there are a few Templars posted, a constant reminder of what happens to those who push further than they ought, who walk too far down roads that were forbidden for a reason.

Fenris still keeps his eyes on them, and his back to the wall. 

Vice-Marshall Cullen is always with them, even during meals, overseeing the recruits as he has since the Marshall dismissed them to his care. Fenris notices that he’s also taken a position away from the table full of white coats, and occasionally even his eyes flick in their direction.

The Vice-Marshall is here for more than just observation. Recruits are dropping out at a steady clip, but at nowhere near the numbers to match the Marshall’s predictions, and so it seems Cullen is here to close that gap. At any time he will step up, tap a recruit on the shoulder and lean forward to deliver a few low words, and that is all it takes. The recruits slump either in shock or shame or secret relief, and then they are gone. A few men have tapped their friends shoulders just to laugh as they freeze up, but the Vice-Marshall is always watching, so it isn’t funny for long.

Fenris thinks he had the right of it, that they’re harsher on the ones who’ve come alone than the ones who arrive together. A few of the solos have paired up, perhaps in the hopes of increasing their chances, but Fenris can’t bring himself to even consider trying, despite the Vice-Marshall pulling two recruits right out from the morning call, another during the run that followed - and two more on their way to the cafeteria. He’s not even sure what it is that catches the man’s eye, not always the ones who’ve finished last or done worst who get taken out.

If there’s anything worse than a capricious judgement, Fenris doesn’t know it, even constant brutality better than a respite he can’t trust. He hasn’t been able to avoid many blows in his life, but he appreciates the opportunity to at least brace for them. He tries to relax, to keep his focus on whatever task is in front of him, but Fenris knows he’s still tense, waiting for sound of footsteps and that hand around his shoulder. Old habits he thought he’d left behind in Tevinter, still hounding him as mercilessly as his dreams.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, you know.” 

Fenris has mostly been left alone, a few curious stares but no one with the time or energy to make more of it so far. He vaguely knows the man grinning across the table at him, an even-tempered Kirkwaller named Donnic, who has the bunk across the isle from his own. He seems a genuinely friendly sort, not that it makes his sudden reassurance any less surprising, or sensible.

“Is that so?” Fenris says, keeping his tone as indifferent as he can.

Donnic nods. “The Vice-Marshall’s not going to pull you yet. I have it on good authority - you’ve got fans. I’m half-surprised they haven’t just loaded you into a Jaeger by now and let you have at.”

It’s meant as a kindness, and Fenris knows he ought to be happy. It’s what he came here for, and the assurance that he won’t be cast out should only be a relief- but instead it settles on him with the weight of familiar obligation. If he’s been noticed, it means he’s once more at the mercy of those with more power and more control over his life than he has. Maybe it will always be this, for the rest of his days - a matter of favors to be won, measured out and fenced in by the good graces of others.

Fenris tries to swallow, but there’s not much point, and he puts his fork down, pushing the half-full tray away. Donnic frowns.

“You all right there?”

“Fine.”

———————————————

Marshall Stannard’s office rests at the highest corner of the Shatterdome, positioned to look out through the rocky plinths that provide some natural protection to the bay, providing a view of the sea that stretches across the better part of two walls, magnificent and terrible and vast. At this height, it could almost be the view from a Jaeger. 

She is looking out the window, and doesn’t turn when Hawke comes in. The silence stretches out just long enough to be a reminder of which of them is in control here and oh yeah, this is going to be a _great_ meeting.

“Champion.”

“If you weren’t here to remind me Marshall, I’d have forgotten ages ago.”

Hawke keeps her voice cheerful, though it’s never been anything close to friendly between them. She’s not entirely sure Meredith _does_ friendly meetings, even as she’s slowly ambled her way up the Marshall’s threat meter from Incompetent Ferelden to Inconveniently Stubborn to Champion. Not that Hawke has ever made any attempt to use that reputation - if it’s even really worth an eighth of a damn - and the Marshall really ought to have figured that out by now.

Anders has argued with her - like always - about the perils of being tone-deaf in politics, of deliberately choosing not to care. How many people could have been saved in Ferelden, if there hadn’t been so much infighting at the start, if Loghain hadn’t been so daft as to consider the Kaiju the lesser threat? Still, Hawke hadn’t been able to change anything there, in her own country, and the Marshall’s been locked in a silent war with the city nobles for years now, long before the Blight ever shook up these shores. 

It’s the reason Hawke’s here fighting, and not crowded out by Kirkwall’s own Academy-trained. If the Marshall had an Academy, she’d also have an army, and the Viscount isn’t about to lose any more power than he has. So Meredith’s left with them, Rangers with their own allegiances who come in and out as needed, using Kirkwall as a useful port but indifferent to the world outside of the Shatterdome. It can’t be easy, being the Marshall here, but at every opportunity Meredith seems intent on standing alone.

The room descends yet again into silence, and a smarter person might be worried or at least intimidated, but Hawke is mostly just tired. She’d managed to catch Varric at the last minute for one more round trip to the Pit and two more journals, along with the best photos she could manage from one of Anders’ innumerable, patched-together gadgets - and she’d only shocked herself twice on the makeshift battery. 

Unsurprisingly, he’s completely disappeared into his research, not to be disturbed ‘unless you are on fire or the Maker is here for my list of complaints.’ Karl, thankfully, is sensible enough to at least make the occasional food run, though Hawke knows they’re taking turns on the cot, when Anders isn’t just falling asleep on his feet. So far there’s been little progress, the cipher impossible and some of it possibly even in ancient Elvish which has Anders side-eyeing Merrill something fierce. Maker knows the elf can keep a secret when it’s dangerous enough, the ‘mirror’ she’s got tucked away in her and Isabela’s quarters is proof enough of that, but the last thing Merrill really needs is another obsession.

The deal is that Hawke gets the first five books up, and they’ll decide from there - if they haven’t cracked it by then. At least the cavern seems to be stable and relatively secure, all the beasts that live in the dark with other hobbies than light reading. No one’s brought it up yet, what to do if they do find an answer - _the_ answer - or how far they can go before they’ll have to let the rest of the world know. Let alone how they’ll survive it, if and when the Templars do find out. Poor Orsino, the last thing he needs is another crusade while trying to pretend he’s got things under control, and Hawke reminds herself to just buy him a new liquor cabinet before they spring that surprise. Maybe fill up a spare conn-pod with his favorite rum and let him have a swim. For the moment, it’s still one step at a time. Fight the fight that’s in front of them - which has always been enough to stay occupied.

“We’re trading out the Orlesians and the Nevarrans at the end of the month. We have two Jaegers coming down from the Anderfels to replace them.”

“Yes, Marshall.”

So the roster will be restacked, and Hawke might have to trade out her slot with Siren’s Call for a while. The Anderfels didn’t get hit often, the Jaegers they did have mostly older models, and best paired with a faster ally. It’s important news, but not the sort of thing worthy of a call in to the Marshall’s office.

“Kirkwall has seen a good deal of activity as of late.”

“We’ve only lost six Rangers in the last eighteen months.” Hawke says. “Compared to our kill count, that’s a better average than any other Shatterdome.”

Life as a Ranger isn’t quite the horror show Meredith makes it out to be, but Hawke can appreciate putting a little fear into anyone looking for easy glory. It damned sure isn’t easy for the dead, and being left behind to mourn them isn’t much more fun. Of those six lost, Hawke had Drifted with three of them, including Lia, the youngest casualty they’d had in years. A Cat 4 had pinned down her Jaeger in their third mission out, and she and her co-pilot hit the self-destruct before it could tear them apart, at least making sure they took the monster with them.

Hawke still carried around a bit of her, a few memories that stayed - the first time Lia had been on a boat, soaked by the sea-spray and giggling herself breathless. The day she stole one of her father’s jam tarts, burning her tongue instead of waiting for it to cool. The perfect silence of a midwinter snowfall, as she’d spun on frosted stones beneath the _Vhenadahl_.

Brave little girl.

“I have received word of increasing troubles in Orlais.” 

Food riots, no doubt. Hawke is glad Meredith’s gaze is still out the window, it means she doesn’t have to try to keep her expression professional. The Orlesians are always in trouble. The Orlesians are always having riots. If the Orlesians didn’t treat the people who actually worked for a living like Kaiju droppings, and if they didn’t punish their scientists as hard as they leaned on them, maybe they wouldn’t always be so far in the shit. It’s not like Hawke’s about to wish Kaiju on anyone, but if their Breaches were a bit more active they might not have so much time to pretend it’s everyone else’s problem. 

“We both know, Marshall, that the Orlesians don’t have to deal with a quarter of what we see.”

“Indeed,” Meredith says, and turns. The Marshall’s less emotive than a Jaeger most of the time, always more going on than what’s being said. Usually it’s the Vice-Marshall she throws at Hawke, Cullen just slightly more patient - and human - than Meredith ever allows herself to be. 

Anders, of course, holds the Marshall in the same contempt as anyone with ties to the Templars, and there’s certainly a good deal to be said about her coldness and her ruthlessness and the number and variety of the forest of sticks up her ass, but that’s not all she is. Meredith had a life before she was the Marshall, she had a Jaeger and a damned good kill count and a sister for her co-pilot. Hawke knows a little bit about all that, just like she knows what happens when it goes wrong.

One bad call, that’s all it takes, one unlucky day. One Kaiju a little faster or stronger or with some new trick and all the training and armor in the world might not even mean the chance to trip the self-destruct. It hadn’t for the Marshall or her sister, the conn-pod taking a direct hit, systems badly damaged - and Meredith’s sister left hanging lifeless from the controls.

Meredith held the bay for the next nine hours. _Nine hours_ , with two more confirmed kills until reinforcements had finally arrived. Of course no one could solo a Jaeger for that long, and the consensus was that there had been some bit of her sister’s brain still firing, enough to take the neural load but nothing like a person remaining, not even a Tranquil. Meredith had spent nine hours Drifting with a ghost then, alone with the fading echoes of her dead sister. 

No one just walked away from that.

The two windows that don’t overlook the bay provide a wide view of the Shatterdome instead, and when the Marshall finally moves Hawke follows her, until they’re looking down the dizzying vista of several floors, with a few Jaeger bays visible in the distance. Closest to them is the training room currently being used for the recruits, the open ceiling providing an excellent overview of the proceedings. Hawke is glad to see there’s still quite a few recruits left in the program - Cullen’s good at his job, mostly weeding out the temperamental and aggressive, anyone who might make for a truly ugly Drift, but at times that means they reach the end of the week with nearly no one left to train.

Finding Fenris is easy, his white hair so bright under the lights he might as well send up a flare. Isabela’s been teasing her for not taking more initiative, though Hawke remembers her own first week of Ranger training back in Ferelden, too exhausted and sore to even consider the rest of the world as anything but an obstacle between her and her bunk

“It’s all about overcoming adversity.” Isabela had said, undaunted. “C’mon, Hawke. You’ve got to strike while the elf is hot.” 

Which will be a problem sometime around the back end of never. If the Maker ever made anything more beautiful, Hawke’s sure He never even let it touch the ground.

_Hey, anyone listening? I will double my next tithe at the Chantry if he goes for that pullup bar and - yes. Yes, thank you. I think we can all agree this is best for everyone._

With an extra special blessing to whoever handed out the tank tops.

Fenris moves like a machine, rep after rep like it’s nothing, and he’d hang there for the rest of the day if they asked him to. Hawke enjoys watching the show, but there’s still that tension in him she doesn’t like at all. Always watching the rest of the room, aware of everything as if he’s expecting to be jumped at any minute, and she doesn’t even want to guess what kind of life could make a man that wary all the time. Isabela’s not wrong, if he’s at all interested they could have a hell of a lot of fun - but even if he’s not, Hawke might at least be able to give him five minutes to just sit and breathe without having to watch his back

“I need eight, Hawke.” 

The Marshall’s been silent long enough that her voice seems overloud in the empty room. So, this is why she’s here? 

“Eight pilots? I can do that.” 

The Marshall only looks at her, and after a moment of staring back Hawke gets it - she doesn’t believe it, but she gets it. 

“You mean teams. You want _sixteen_ new Rangers?” 

Meredith nods briskly, as if she hasn’t just asked for the impossible. 

“As stable as you can make them, as soon as I can have them. I imagine we will obtain some of them through standard practices - I have the Vice-Marshall making his selections throughout the week, as usual. However, you have always argued a… particular theory, that Drifting can be taught. You believe that we are too quick to throw away those with potential.” 

Now this, this is interesting. This is… hell, Hawke doesn’t know _what_ this is. It’s easy to hear the undertone of distaste in the Marshall’s words, as if she really doesn’t believe any of what she’s saying, and Hawke wonders how many other good ideas the Marshall tossed aside to be left with hers at the bottom of the stack. Even more than that, she wonders what in the world they need sixteen Rangers _for_.

“The dwarves are sending us five new Jaegers over the next nine months. Two Mark IV’s and three Mark V’s.” 

It’s a lot of new machines at a go, even if they’ve been expecting the V’s, but it doesn’t explain sixteen Rangers, or Meredith’s sudden reluctance to get to the point. 

“Marshall…”

“The Wardens believe they can close the Breach at Kirkwall.” 

Hawke has to blink for a moment, before she can even fumble for a reply. 

“I thought they didn’t have the means… or the numbers, after Ferelden. I thought the Archdemon…”

“As did I.” Meredith says. “Yet here we are.” 

The Wardens don’t make runs on the Breaches often, and it doesn’t always work, but when it _does_ … Closing the Breach nearest to Kirkwall could cut the Kaiju attacks in _half_ if not more, and Maker knew they seemed to get first bid on any Cat 4’s, the seemingly random nature of the Breaches still tossing the worst of the shit their way. 

Still, it’s an ugly, dangerous business, escorting a Warden’s Jaeger to the Breach. The Kaiju always seem to know they’re coming, there are always unexpected complications and the Jager the Wardens send never comes back and most of the time the escorts don’t either. It means sacrificing skilled pilots and Jaegers for even a chance at success. It means Hawke isn’t just training new Rangers - she’s probably looking to train her replacement. 

“Val Royeaux has petitioned for their Breach to be sealed instead.” 

“Oh, that is just _bullshit_.”

Hawke doesn’t even bother trying to rein it in, and gains what might be the very tiniest edge of the Marshall’s very rare smile. 

“It is far more populous a city than Kirkwall.” 

“Because they’re too damned stubborn to move inland and they think the Maker will drop everything to protect them.” 

“Hawke.” Meredith says, a warning in her tone. “We are fortunate to have the Grand Cleric here. Her continued safety may sway the sentiments of those in the Chantry petitioning hardest for Orlais.” 

It sounds like a whole heap of political hell, the other reason Hawke prefers just keeping to her Jaeger, where all the problems can at least be solved with heavy munitions and lots of punching. The Marshall sighs, looking down at the recruits, with no telling what she actually sees. 

“There are those who say we live in a fallen world. The Kaiju are the Maker’s judgment, and we ought to accept it, and allow them to have done with us.” 

Hawke snorts. “Well, I’m happy to let them go first.” 

In the room below the recruits have all split up into pairs - simple sparring, not yet the formal combat of the Kwoon. Fenris is smaller than the man he’s facing, but faster and far more agile. He must be amazing out there, in a Jaeger - and Hawke watches him suddenly pull a punch, one that would have done a lot more damage than even the strike that hits him in return. Fenris shakes it off, and dodges the next two blows, but Hawke wonders how much of his sharp focus has less to do with concentration than with remembering not to kill his opponent by accident. 

She really hopes everything she’s heard about Tevinter isn’t true. 

“The Vice-Marshall is impressed with his endurance,” Meredith says, noticing Hawke’s interest, “but there’s little point in letting him even finish out the week. No Tevinter Ranger has ever successfully piloted outside the Imperium. Skilled as he might be, he’s too damaged to maintain a steady Drift, if he can even connect at all. He’ll be nothing but a liability in a Jaeger, if not worse.” Meredith’s eyes narrow. “It’s a shame, getting inside his head might give us some idea what they’re up to.” 

Hawke frowns. The Drift is for Jaegers and Rangers only, getting inside other people’s heads for any other reason a betrayal of the Chant of Light and all the rest of Andraste’s teachings. Still, Hawke’s heard otherwise - Anders has said as much, any tool that powerful too tempting for the Templars to completely set aside. It’s not how Hawke was raised, the Drift a sacred bond between Rangers, with everything seen or heard inside meant for no one else. 

“If I figure it out, can I keep him?” 

Maybe the Marshall’s surprised, or intrigued, or annoyed. It’s always hard to tell. 

“You’ve always been quite… sentimental.” 

Hawke grins. 

“One of my many flaws, Marshall.”

Meredith steps away from the glass, and with one last glance in Fenris’ direction - he’s won his first match easily, and will likely keep knocking them down for as long as they let him - Hawke follows, waiting to be dismissed. Maker knows she’s going to need some time to let all this sink in.

“How is your sister?”

For all that she argues with Anders about the Templars, for all their midnight talks about forgiveness and salvation and all that she goes back and forth herself about Meredith, if the woman’s a danger or a tragic comedy or some mix of both - there are moments like these, when it’s a lot like looking in a mirror. Neither of them are comfortable with how much they have in common.

“No change.”

A slight nod.

“Good day, Ranger.”

“Marshall.”


	6. Chapter 6

He’s lost. Again.

Fenris stands very still in the middle of the empty hallway and does not start swearing despite the rather powerful temptation. The worst part of this is how certain he’d been of knowing exactly where he was only moments before. It was ridiculous to be so confident, given that the training room and the cafeteria are the only places he’s familiar with, marching along the little triangle of his new life that begins and ends with his bunk.

Except that now they’d gone and added the simulation room to that, throwing him in with the second group to be tested, only hours ago. Fenris had been looking forward to it - stupidly overconfident, will he ever be anything else? It had not gone well, and since then he’s been nothing but preoccupied, tracing back through every awkward move and foolish mistake. He’d needed to get away, clear his head, relying on a view of the Jaeger bays to keep himself oriented, just a glance through any window enough to get his bearings, convinced he couldn’t lose sight of a marker well over twenty stories high.

Yet here he is, in a featureless hallway with no windows at all, the path ahead branching out in three directions, all of them unknowns. He’s already tried to backtrack twice, back through identical halls and stairwells that do not lead where he expected them to, mostly ending in locked doors he has no keycard for. Fenris has seriously considered just phasing his way out, increasingly desperate to find anything familiar. He can handle a wall if it’s not too thick, and if he has a moment to concentrate - but what are the odds that wouldn’t end with him trespassing into some high-security zone. Or perhaps he’d plow himself three feet deep into bedrock, or just pitch right through the outer wall and into the sea.

Fenris has yet to show them that particular trick, no reason to let go of a single secret until he has to.

Maybe it is better to be lost for, at least a little while, almost relaxing to walk down the vacant halls after so many days surrounded by the other recruits and the constant cycles of the Shatterdome. It’s the first down time they’ve had in a week, an unofficial victory for the men and women left standing, though the real struggle has yet to start. Donnic had offered to take him on a grand tour of Kirkwall proper, or at least an excursion through those taverns where being a successful recruit earned them a pint on the house. If he’d had a better day, Fenris might even have taken him up on it, though he does not fool himself that he’s any sort of proper company, especially with today’s failures still weighing on him.

Fenris knows he has his weak points, deficiencies that will only be more obvious as the second week rolls on, and so he needs to gain all the ground that he can while he has the advantage. The simulations should have been a perfect opportunity to show his skills and experience over the other recruits - if only it had gone that way. 

He’d never been in the machine before, Tevinter with little interest in training its Indentured so, and it was just enough like being in a Jaeger that he tried to fight as he always had, but without the speed or power to give him any of the same returns. It ought to have been easier, with no distractions and no Magister in his head, but the controls were slow and unresponsive and he’d nearly phased his hand through the equipment _twice_ , trying to deliver a killing blow the system couldn’t begin to understand.

He didn’t lose, but it was much closer than it ought to have been, and his score had obviously been a disappointment. A few of the recruits had even looked away in embarrassment as he’d unhooked from the machine. Of course Fenris had gone back to the end of the line, to try again, and the second trial had gone marginally better than the first, though by the end of it he was nowhere near the top of the list. 

If these simulations are the best approximation of what a Kirkwall Jaeger can do, he might have to relearn nearly everything he knows. It’s a bit of a numbing thought, even if punching at the shadows of monsters had still been somewhat satisfying. Fenris had recognized a few of the Kaiju by type, profiles and powers he’s dealt with before. It had been his saving grace, just enough to keep him hanging on.

Donnic had seemed honestly disappointed when Fenris declined his offer - a surprise, but not unwelcome. Fenris hasn’t given much thought to what will happen at the end of all this, if he actually does make it to the end. It might not be the worst thing, to Drift with a man like Donnic. 

Still, he’d went his own way, with some half-assed plan of going back to the simulation room for one more go at raising his scores, or perhaps even finding some quiet place to flip through the thin tome he’d come upon, a short guide to Kirkwall with his own poorly scrawled copy of the alphabet tucked inside, those few words he’s picked up on his way across the continent. Fenris hasn’t had the time or place to study up since he’s entered the Shatterdome, not at the risk of the Marshall finding out she’s testing a Ranger who can’t actually _read_ the control panel - but he’ll manage. He’s good at that.

Or at least he was, until he wandered into this endless hallway. The featureless, quiet expanse ahead doesn’t look any different than the rest of what he’s been walking through, but Fenris has the feeling he’s more lost with each step he takes. The air smells different, cooler with a slight chemical tinge, stirring up all sorts of wisps of memory and not a single one he wishes to focus on.

No, his dreams have not been worth mentioning.

Fenris goes up stairs. He goes down stairs. He goes back up them again, and finds himself at what may or may not be a familiar split in the hallway, and honestly considers whether he could explain himself out of just setting off the next alarm he sees - and that’s when the hand comes down on his shoulder.

It’s probably a good thing that his reflexes have been dulled by a sudden, numbing dread, Fenris really doesn’t need to add a throbbing heart in his hand to the list of today’s mistakes. Still he knows who that solid grip belongs to, and he turns, already swallowing back whatever curse or question or plea threatens to betray him as he looks at the Vice-Marshall. Fenris isn’t going to beg for this, he’s just not. 

Donnic was wrong, it seems, or perhaps the simulator scores tipped some balance he hadn’t been aware of. Is there any point in even venturing into Kirkwall proper, or should he just keep going, and try to make it across the sea?

“I’m going to assume you’re _not_ trying to take the shortcut to sewage treatment.” 

Vice-Marshall Cullen actually smiles, and it’s small and as formal as the rest of him, but kind enough. Fenris waits a moment before he bothers with breathing, but already the worst of his worry is fading. The Vice-Marshall is not one for small talk - if this were the end it would have already happened.

“I may… have gotten slightly turned around.” He can’t help the edge of annoyance in his voice, the Vice-Marshall looking politely amused.

“When I first arrived, I found myself wandering a sub-basement for the better part of an afternoon. I said I’d been investigating a strange noise, but there was a map waiting for me when I got back to my room.”

The Vice-Marshall turns, and starts walking in the one direction Fenris had been certain wasn’t right. There’s little to do but step in beside him and wonder how much work it might be to get a map of his own.

“You’re… not from Kirkwall, then?”

“No.” Cullen says, slightly surprised. “Oh, of course, you’re not from here either. The Free Marchers can pick out a Ferelden at two-dozen paces, though I’m still not sure quite how.”

The remaining recruits have grown bold enough to start telling rumors, conversations overheard from the ground crews or the few men and women who hail from Kirkwall itself, familiar with its dark and disturbing history. The details, as with any story worth the telling, are still quite sketchy and up for constant debate. 

The Marshall lost her sister in the Drift, and it almost certainly took the better part of her with it - whatever’s left of Meredith is just empty steel and rage tightly bound - the recruits from further south speak of glaciers, blocks of ice like mountains that burn with cold. The Marshall’s what they need to keep Kirkwall safe, but that doesn’t mean she’s anything close to sane, and by many accounts the Vice-Marshall is little more than her copy - Stannard Mark II.

He had been like any other Templar once, but Cullen ended up on the wrong side of an ugly coup, a group of scientists who decided they didn’t have any further need for oversight. By all accounts it had been a slaughter, and worse. Fenris didn’t need to hear the details to believe it. An opportunity for live subjects to test out their most elaborate theories, free of accountability or mercy or shame? Of course they would jump at the chance. A few recruits swore there’d been bits of Kaiju mixed in with the horror, yet another attempt to Drift with them - and so they’d killed the Templars one after the next with trying. It had been a point of some debate at the breakfast table, whether or not the Vice-Marshall had been offered up, and just how bad off he’d been when they’d rescued what was left of him.

Fenris knows the Vice-Marshall didn’t Drift with any kind of Kaiju because he’s still breathing. Tevinter’s been trying to make it work since the first Blight, throwing body after body at the problem with no success. Hadriana used to taunt him with it, that when Danarius finally tired of him she’d plug him in just to enjoy the screams.

Whatever happened to him, there is at least some truth to the rumors. The Vice-Marshall tends toward a stoic blankness most of the time, and even before Fenris knew the story he could see the terrible sadness buried in his eyes, a resignation that only came from great loss. A way of gazing into the middle distance, seeing some other world than this one. Fenris knows where that look comes from, and though he doubts the Vice-Marshall has any need of his understanding or his respect, it is there regardless.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, once this week is over with,” Cullen says. “The Marshall is quite interested in your experiences piloting in the north.”

“I’m not… sure what use I could be.”

 _The hell you’re not._ As if Danarius had let a single day pass without remarking on the weapon he’d built.

“If nothing else, you might at least set some rumors straight.” The Vice-Marshall says. “In the Chantry they say the Magisters all but worship the Kaiju in the Maker’s place.”

“No.” Fenris says quickly. He’s heard this rumor before. “No, the only thing that matters to them is the power beyond the Breach. The Kaiju are the means to an end - though I am sure the Magisters would prefer it if you didn’t name the Archdemons after their gods.” 

Archdemons, the biggest and the worst of the Kaiju - Category 5. One of them comes with every Blight, and killing it supposedly requires throwing it back down through the Breach, sealing it up on top of them. In the Ancient times, they say a single Archdemon lay waste to every city on the Imperial Highway from Vol Dorma to what they now call Cumberland.

“Is it true,” Cullen says, “that Tevinter thinks they can find a way to control the Kaiju?”

“Are they trying? Yes,” and with every attempt, a few more bodies on the pile. “Succeeding? No, as far as I know.”

Fenris is certain he would have heard of even a minor victory there, the barest hint of success. The Magisters do not keep it a secret when they’ve managed to outclass their rivals. Danarius thought it would only be a matter of time, but then his former master thought everything would only be a matter of time.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Cullen says. “We have enough fun with the Kaiju as they are.”

Fenris is trying to keep track of the path they’re taking back through the Shatterdome, but it’s impossible to do so and still keep his attention on the Vice-Marshall. He isn’t being asked to leave, but that’s no reason to drop his guard.

“So, you intend to continue to the second week? You truly want to be a Ranger?”

It’s much more than a simple question, though he does not know what Cullen wants to hear. Fenris works to keep his voice casual. 

“It’s what I know how to do.”

The Vice-Marshall nods slowly, and when he speaks again there’s a hesitance in his words that might even be called polite.

“I have heard… other rumors, of Tevinter, and their Rangers. That it is not always… voluntary, and-”

“There’s some truth in that.” Fenris cuts him off, before the man can go into further detail. He’s tired of thinking about it, sick of his pain, of dragging what feels like the entire damned Imperium around with him wherever he goes.

“I…” Cullen pauses. The hall is profoundly silent around them. “I know what it is to be powerless in the face of great evil. I know… what that does to a man.”

“I’d heard it was not so bad here.”

“No,” The Vice-Marshall says, “it’s not so bad. You’re strong and you’re focused, and you’ve obviously held your own out there. I’m certainly not going to get in your way if you want to kill Kaiju. I just thought you should know that if it doesn’t work out, if it ends up not being what you want - there could still be a place for you in Kirkwall.”

Of course he’s suspicious. Of course it’s likely the Marshall would want more from him than a few simple answers and some random information, and there’s always the question of what would happen, if - no, _when_ Danarius comes to call. Being a Ranger means security and status, what he needs to survive. Fenris had never given any thought to an alternative, but he also doesn’t think the Vice-Marshall is a liar.

“Please, no! Stop!”

A woman’s voice, high with panic, echoes from around the corner, a much rougher voice laughing in response - as much in anticipation as amusement, and Fenris can’t help but tense up.

“Are you listening to this?” The deep voice rumbles. “It sounds like she’s not going to let us have a look.”

As they turn the corner, three figures come into view at the far end of the hall. Two Templars, in armor that leaves them looking oddly like tiny Jaegers, now looming over a girl who clutches a large jar tightly against her chest, as if she held a child. Fenris nearly steps back as he watches pale abstracts swirl in the murky liquid beneath the glass - it’s a Kaiju, or part of one. The girl's from the labs he can smell all around them, behind every closed door. 

“All right then,” the second Templar speaks, taking a step closer. “Hand it over.”

She is pressed back against the wall, fear quickly eating up her determination, but even as she cowers she does not comply.

“I can’t… I’m sorry. It’s very fragile, and the last time you - it’s one of the oldest complete samples we have of - I went through all the proper channels! Everything’s been approved. Please don’t-“

“Maybe we can cut a deal, to keep you out of trouble?” The first Templar says, in a mockery of understanding. “You can’t just go saying no a Templar, love.”

Fenris does not like the girl or what she stands for. He likes this Templar even less, and it is heartening to see the Vice Marshall’s expression growing darker by the moment. Taking a moment to listen, so that the man might damn himself as fully as possible, but he finally steps forward to take action - only to have the lightning bolt beat him to it.

A massive arc of heat and light cuts a jagged line through the room, catching the Templar full in the chest, sending him crashing back into the wall, tiny bursts of electricity skittering across the steel as the power slowly dissipates.

“How about ‘No, thank you’?”

The man’s voice is mild as he steps out of a side passage, leaning only a little on a cane, his eyes obscured by dark glasses and his white coat nearly burning beneath the lights. An electric crackles hums up and down his other arm, gloved in circuitry and power - ancient Tevinter tech. Fenris remembers the Magisters carrying ice and fire and overwhelming power in the palm of their hands. The sort of illegal knowledge the Templars are supposed to eliminate, but the man doesn’t seem particularly worried, even when the Templar draws his sword.

“Oh, please do,” He smiles, his hand down but his fingers poised and ready, “It'll give me a chance to check the recharge rate.”

A sword against a thunderbolt. Fenris cannot believe anyone has to ask why such knowledge should be restricted, why the Magisters and their kind can never be allowed to regain what was lost. Nothing in the patchwork that is Thedas would be able to slow them down, let alone stop them, the whole world ground down once more beneath the pitiless dictates of power.

“Anders. That’s enough.” The Vice-Marshall barks, the remaining Templar quickly drawing to attention. The scientist - Anders - doesn’t turn to look in their direction, but the sparks and flickers around his arm slowly fade away. As they move closer, Fenris can see he’s a much younger man than he seemed at first glance, the cane and a certain brittleness in the way he moves adding false decades to a mostly unlined face.

“Ella,” Anders says gently to the girl still cowering in the corner. “Go on and get that sample up to the lab. I’ll be by later.”

She looks to the Vice-Marshall, and when he nods slightly the girl flees as quickly as she can, nearly leaping over the fallen Templar without looking, rushing past them to disappear silently around the corner.

“Vice-Marshall, sir.” The Templar says, “This man here-“

“I have _eyes_ , Ser Karras. I also have ears. Get your friend there up off the floor, I want to see you both in my office.”

“Sir, I-“

“What was that, Karras?”

“…Nothing, sir.”

The Templar has to work a little to clear out, his fallen comrade half-conscious at best, but after a few false starts and some careful balancing he staggers off with the other man’s arm across his shoulder. The Vice-Marshall doesn’t watch them go, he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Anders. Fenris can feel the familiar thrum of tension, of blood waiting to be spilled. No one’s drawn a weapon yet, but he’s watching for the barest twitch of those still-gloved fingers, even the tiniest spark.

“So, I imagine that’s not as blatantly illegal as it looks.” Cullen says. Anders smirks.

“What, this?” He flexes his hand a little. “It’s for welding, obviously. One of Dagna’s. Damned thing keeps malfunctioning, though, and she asked me to look into it.”

“Obviously.” Cullen says. “I do expect I won’t see it malfunctioning in the direction of any more Templars.”

“I suppose that depends on how many of them want to malfunction around my team.”

If Cullen doesn’t want to punch him, Fenris certainly does. At least until he thinks the better of that smile.

“The last that I checked, Anders, it wasn’t your team.”

“No, it’s Orsino’s. But he’s tamed enough to think that listening to you is a good idea.”

Fenris steps closer then, the thinnest thread of loyalty to the Vice-Marshall strengthened by how much he does not like this man, a dangerous stranger who hides himself behind dark glasses, with the hint of a perpetual sneer and all the trappings of a Magister. Hadriana preferred lightning now and then, as the fashions turned. Fenris has been hit with it, enough to know he can take it and keep fighting and perhaps he’ll give this Anders some new data on how it feels to eat his little toy.

“Fenris, let me introduce you to Anders. One of our top Drift experts, and head J-tech liaison for some of our best Jaeger teams.” 

Neither of them bother with the fiction of a polite greeting. Neither of them say a word, and though Fenris can’t see where he’s looking he can almost feel Anders’ gaze lingering for a moment, marking the path of his tattoos, before bringing his attention back to the Vice-Marshall.

“One of your new recruits, then? I could make some suggestions, if you’re wondering who to replace.”

“He’s not one of mine, I’m afraid.” Cullen says. “Fenris is up for the Rangers.”

Anders goes very, very still, and Fenris has the feeling he’s just been shifted across a line, from curiosity to threat. He has no idea why, but at least they’ve saved themselves some time and can get right down to the loathing.

“We didn’t get access to the bodies, Vice-Marshall.” Anders says, deliberately changing the subject, ignoring Fenris once more. "The Templars turned us away. Again.”

Cullen sighs, this is obviously not a new complaint. “Is it Kaiju or human this time?”

“Both, for all the difference it makes. We could be _helping_ Darktown through this latest plague, whatever it is. We can isolate it, figure out how to treat it - but you’ve got to let us do a few proper autopsies first.”

“You know damned well I can’t have you and yours cutting people open inside the Shatterdome. It was bad enough handling that business with that lunatic Du Puis and his ‘mentor’ - and you’re a fool if you think anyone’s forgotten that.”

“I’m not asking permission to pry corpses off the family pyre,” Anders snaps back. “Give us the vagrants, the ones with no one to claim them - it’s not like you gave a damn for them when they were alive!”

How many times has Fenris heard this before? How reasonable, how fair - what harm can it do, finding a purpose for those with no other place? All in the name of science, and progress. A small sacrifice, for the good of the many. The wretched of the world must have some value, even if it is only to strip their bones to build better foundations for the strong. Indentureship is practically a _gift_ , isn’t it, a chance for those with nothing to pull themselves up in the world.

“No, Anders. The answer is no.”

The scientist sighs as if he’d like to growl, running his ungloved hand through his hair, rubbing hard at one temple.

“At least keep your Templars off me the next time there’s a Kaiju out there, then. You know how it works. The fresher the body, the more we can do with it. Let the Rangers drag the next one in. I don’t even need it in the bay, just-”

Cullen doesn’t give an inch. “I can’t endanger the people of Kirkwall for the sake of your research. If the Kaiju don’t make landfall, if we can drop them back in the sea that’s a whole lot of poison not washing up on our shores.”

Anders slams the end of his cane hard against the ground.

“How do you think this is going to end? Is this really what you want, a whole lifetime of fighting to end up right where you started? All that needs to happen is for it to get that little bit worse and we’re all done for. We got lucky with the last Blight. We got _lucky_. This is a war of attrition, it always has been and they’ve got the numbers, and even the Marshall getting her sixteen isn’t going to change that.”

It means nothing to Fenris, but he sees Cullen tense, and Anders smiles again, small and smug and incredibly self-satisfied.

“Hawke and I don’t keep secrets from each other, Vice-Marshall.”

“No, I’m sure she doesn’t.”

It’s not the first time Fenris has heard that name - Bethany had said it, and he had mistaken it for a Jaeger only to discover it was a family name, the name of her sister. A very important Ranger here in Kirkwall. They called her the Champion. They said she’d killed a Cat 5, the only one ever seen outside of a Blight, that she’d taken it down in the bay right before it could smash through the wall. All it had required was a little sacrifice, Bethany’s Tranquility for all that prestige - Fenris knew how it worked. Hardly a surprise then, that she knew this Anders, and that they were allies.

He wonders if Bethany loved her sister once, if the betrayal had come from nowhere or if she’d always been afraid, waiting for the day she proved expendable. If they Drifted in Kirkwall the way they claimed to, as equals, then she must have known - but Fenris has less and less reason to believe things here are so much different from what he’d left behind.

If he weren’t watching so closely, if every move that Anders made didn’t scream threat then maybe Fenris wouldn’t have noticed at all. It’s a mere fraction of an inch, the glasses on his eyes slipping down ever so slightly, Anders reaching up to adjust them. In that instant, though, Fenris catches a glimpse of the eyes behind those lenses and he recoils, his breath leaving him in a horrified rush.

No one moves, Anders’ expression one of confusion - and then slowly dawning realization. He tucks a finger around the corner of the frame, and pulls them away, staring at Fenris through the eyes of a monster.

 _Abomination._ The only word he can think of that even comes close.

“Oh, so the Vice-Marshall didn’t get to this part of the tour?”

Fenris has seen all kinds of death, but there is little in this world worse than the burned-out husks discarded after those unsuccessful attempts to Drift with the Kaiju: faces and limbs locked in twisted agony, bleeding from the ears and nose and the eyes, and only when they’ve been restrained, to keep from trying to claw them out. The bodies always look ravaged, as if some terrible battle had raged just beneath the skin but it’s the eyes that are the worst. All the vessels blown, irises seemingly charred by some inner fire, bruised and torn and yellow-black. Looking into Anders’ eyes is like staring right down into a Breach itself, a hole torn open to the horizon of some vast, unending nightmare.

“… How?” It’s all he can get out, the only other thought that Anders has managed to succeed - even in this brutal, tortured fashion - where the Magisters have failed, which makes him dangerous beyond all measure. A man full of knifepoints. It does not help that Anders has not stopped smiling.

“Go ahead and tell him, Vice-Marshall. You’ve had more practice with the story than I have.”

Cullen looks equally ill at ease, but he nods ever so slightly.

“Anders was… stationed at the Tower in Ferelden, as I was. A safe place, well away from the coast, where those with skill and talent could work to improve the lives of all men in Thedas.”

The scientist makes a soft, bitter sound, but he does not interrupt. Fenris glances between them - they came from the same place? Yet if Anders was responsible for… no, that doesn’t make sense. The Vice-Marshall might be kinder than expected, but no one could be that forgiving. 

“It was a little less than a year before the Blight, though of course we didn’t know that at the time… There was always contraband moving in and around the Tower. Even in Ferelden, men of science find profitable ways to negotiate with the world outside, with men who don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. Anders was always good at finding ways to get what he wanted, and convincing others to follow his lead.” 

“The Maker smiles on each of us in His own special way.”

Cullen takes a breath, and lets it out slowly. “The last part of their plan involved dragging the better part of a Kaiju brain into the Tower, one with a bit of life left in it. Anders had a theory, that Drifting with a Kaiju was like carrying the neural load from a Jaeger, just more so. He developed a mechanism to spread the strain across multiple minds, a multi-stage Drift - but in the end, it still wasn’t enough. It didn’t work, and eight people died for it.”

“Nine, actually.” Anders says. “Jowan went Tranquil, and he drowned after. Popular opinion says it still counts.” He turns back to Fenris with that shattered, desiccated gaze. “The theory was sound. It should have worked. I spent months going over the calculations - it should have worked. I won’t apologize for trying. If I could do it again, if I thought I figured out what went wrong, I wouldn’t hesitate. It’s too important to hesitate.”

Of course he wouldn’t. A multi-stage Drift, Tevinter style, and of course he’d put himself at the back of the line - the first to demand glory, the very last to face the consequences.

“You’re no different than the Magisters.” Fenris snarls.

“They have funding.” Anders says, and slips his glasses back on. “If that’s all for story time, Vice-Marshall, I have work to do.”

“We’ll talk later.”

Anders’ cane clicks slightly against the floor as he turns back the way he came.

“Are you looking forward to it as much as I am?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, AU Anders doesn’t really make the best first impression.


	7. Chapter 7

The skies are clear and the sun is out. Hawke glances at the sky a few times, just to check if the Maker’s going to reach down and give her a thumbs up.

“I could have sworn they were rationing the sugar.” Anders says, as she nearly bounces into the room. The drivesuit’s no small burden, but Hawke’s nearly weightless with excitement, as comfortable in her armored skin as she is anywhere. It’s a good place to breathe easy, even if that’s the sort of sentiment that leaves Aveline shaking her head. The woman’s a hell of a Ranger, but It’s a duty to her, not a joy and certainly never an escape.

That could change, though, Donnic clearly in the lead with the first week over, not only strong and fast, but well-liked among the other recruits. Of course, Aveline can be iron-clad stubborn sometimes, especially when it comes to her own happiness.

Hawke stops, deliberately bundling up all those thoughts and anything else resembling a worry, glad for the excuse to toss them to the side. If she’s going to have new guests in her head today, the least she can do is tidy up.

It’s never an easy project, training up the new recruits, and the Marshall’s unexpected revelation certainly hasn’t slowed things down. Hawke will have to wait a little longer for most of them, at least through the first round of Drift testing and a fight or two in the Kwoon. Cullen has put a few forward a few names as an initial offering, though, either in good faith or the hopes she’ll fail so spectacularly the Marshall will never have to worry about her again. 

Hawke trusts the Vice-Marshall - Cullen wants this to work, he doesn’t waste that kind of time - but it’s still difficult to believe Meredith’s willing to go this far past her usual operating procedure.

_Win the Wardens’ help, close the Breach and you can all take a vacation. Maybe go up the coast with Izzy and finally get that look at Starkhaven with your own eyes._

Sebastian’s memories had a good deal to recommend the place, more fondness for it than he’d ever admit to out loud.

The Waking Sea has always been the epicenter of the action, she’s never lived more than a handful of miles away. Hawke and her sister fought on both sides of the coast, and after Bethany… was injured, Kirkwall seemed the best place for her to get help, with more links to the old Imperium, more information than most anywhere else in Thedas. 

The longer they stay, though, the tighter the grip the Templars seem fit to keep on the science set - she’s even seen Karl worry, though he tries to shrug it off. Starkhaven might be their next best move, if they do manage to shift the worst of the fight away from Kirkwall. _Andraste’s Grace_ is a beautiful machine to have at her back, and Maker knew she could get used to seeing blue in the sky every once in a while.

Even Sebastian won’t be able to do much for them, though, if this Corypheus business goes as far as it might - and is she really ready to deal with whatever Anders finds, if he _does_ hit an answer? 

_All thoughts for a different day, Hawke._ One when she’s actually planning to stay alone in her head.

Anders is tinkering about on one of his half-dozen screens while the first of her new recruits stands with his back to her, shifting uncomfortably in his drivesuit. He’s staring at Anders’ wall of Kaiju wonders, a near floor-to-ceiling display of various parts of various colors in various states of mostly dead. Anders swears they’re useful, although Hawke thinks that’s mostly to keep his lab free from visitors.

The recruit looks like any number of earnest village boys Hawke has known, all steady optimism and determination - and now nervousness, staring as if she’s caught him playing at make-believe. The drivesuit almost looks too big for him, before he straightens up, snapping to attention so hard she can hear the heavy plates click.

“So, did you eat?” Hawke asks.

It’s not the formal welcome he expects, obviously, and at first his smile’s small and nervous until he realizes he’s allowed to do it.

“No, ma’am. I mean, um - no, Champion?”

“It’s probably a good idea not to. First Drift can be a little rough - and I’m Hawke, just Hawke,” she puts out a hand, “I’m thinking that makes you Keran?”

“Yes, ma’am. Hawke, ma’am. Um, Hawke.”

He winces, nods, blushes, shifts and finally reaches back to shake her hand. 

Keran has his reasons for being this nervous, she knows, even more than the usual first-Drift jitters. It’s far from his first week in the Shatterdome. He’s made it nearly all the way up here before, but he hasn’t had the sort of compatibility scores, or the right sort of response in the Kwoon and that’s kept him on the sidelines until now. 

“Well,” Hawke says, “we could go through the whole getting-to-know you conversation, or I could just tell you what horribly embarrassing thing you’re going to think of the minute we hit the Drift.”

It’s almost always sex, usually involving her, if her co-pilot’s a man, and about half the time with the women. Isabela’s also quite popular, and the Vice-Marshall’s shown up more than once or twice. Or it’ll be one of Keran’s own memories, thrown back in exquisite detail. The more mortifying the thought, the more likely - Hawke’s seen more of imaginary Meredith Stannard than the Marshall’s likely seen in her own bedroom mirror. 

She seriously doubts Keran’s going to get anywhere close to Sebastian Vael’s Ambitiously Naked Grand World Tour - Maker, but that boy got around - but he does blush a bit harder anyway.

“First thing about being a Ranger - whatever happens in there, it doesn’t leave the Jaeger. Your secrets are yours to keep, even when they’re in my head. Okay?”

Keran nods. Hawke’s not about to make any demands of him to do the same, when the first Drift’s likely to leave him feeling like his head’s been popped off and shaken and put on backwards anyway.

“I hear you’ve been throwing yourself at this for a while?”

He nods again. “… three times.”

“I think there might be a definition of insanity in there somewhere.” Hawke keeps her smile on, but that’s an unexpected warning bell. Usually Cullen’s better with weeding out the vendettas, they tend to rabbit like crazy. “So it’s personal? You have a score to settle with the Kaiju?”

“No.” He looks confused, if anything. “No more than anyone else, I guess.” His eyes shift away, and down - there’s more to it, but he doesn’t want to say. If they were anywhere else she’d happily let it slide, but the Drift doesn’t work that way.

“Keran, you know what comes next.” Hawke lowers her voice a little, not that Anders is listening in, “if there’s anything you don’t want to tell me - now’s the time to tell me.”

He blushes again at the reminder of impending intimacy, far more than most people would ever give if there were any other way. Everyone gets pre-Drift jitters the first time, everyone’s heard rumors and horror stories and no one is ever really prepared for it. It’s the main reason Hawke thinks knocking two unprepared minds together is such a slapdash way to go about it. It’ll be better with her as the Ranger who’s been there, to let him panic or chase a rabbit or two and get it all out of his system, while she’s there to make sure he gets back again.

Keran finally nods, his voice low. “Rangers make good money, and if - if they die, their family gets a pension, don’t they?”

It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to live on. Money that the families of dead miners and dead merchants don’t get to see. “They do.”

“I… have a sister. I have to see that she’s provided for.”

He’s doing it for the money, then, and Keran thinks it’s not a good enough reason, that she’s going to fault him over the specifics of a selfless act. It seems the Vice-Marshall hasn’t lost his touch.

Hawke smiles. “I have a sister, too.” 

“Pounce, could you please refrain from adorably erasing five months of data?” 

Anders sighs, scooping the kitten down onto the floor, but by the time he’s managed to stand up again the little cat’s right back in place, purring as it rubs against his hands, walking back and forth and only occasionally stepping on the keyboard. Anders seems a little more aggrieved than usual, but that’s likely due to Keran - wide-eyed earnestness always makes the scientist a bit shirty. He’d been done with Merrill long before she’d accidentally tripped over the most fragile and expensive bits of his lab.

Also, Anders thinks this whole multiple-Drift thing she’s signed up for might just turn her brain into a pudding. He’s still trying to pull his best judgmental stoic badass on her, but it always comes off as disgruntled fishwife, so there’s nothing left for him to do but pout for a bit around his equipment before making his way to the door. Hawke follows, with Keran lagging slightly behind. He’s not used to the full drivesuit yet, walking funny in his best attempt to keep from walking funny.

“You just need to get rattled around a bit,” Hawke says, with an encouraging rap to his shoulder, “and before you know it, it’s like coming home.”

Keran’s distracted enough not to notice or question where it is they’re going, already up a few floors before he even starts to look around. It’s only as they climb and keep climbing and the wall in front of them falls away and the upper sections of a few Jaegers come into view that he finally figures out they’re maybe not going to a lab at all.

“…Hawke?”

“Yes, Keran?”

“I… are we… I mean… I didn’t think…”

“It’s too beautiful to spend the day cooped up inside.” Hawke says. “We’ve got a Jaeger coming out of dry dock after repairs, and they need someone to put her through the paces before she’s cleared for combat. We’re just going to take her up, walk her out around the bay. Check out her heart and her sea legs. It’s easy enough.”

“Certainly nothing bad ever came from tempting fate.” Anders mutters, but it’s little more than half-hearted - he knows the waters are clear. He can feel it, nearly as well as the Wardens do, and sometimes he even dreams beyond the Breaches, which is why he doesn’t sleep. He certainly looks exhausted now - she’s going to have to talk to Karl, make sure someone’s keeping track before he pushes himself right into the infirmary. Again.

“Don’t be like that, Anders. It’s only… what, a forty percent chance his head will explode?” Keran turns an alarming, fish-belly shade, and Hawke grins. “Bad joke, I swear. You don’t need to worry, we’ll take good care of you.”

Anders is sharp - the best J-tech liaison Hawke knows, and though he’s got more than enough to keep busy without being in charge of her deployments he’s never complained and she can’t imagine anyone else she’d want in the chair. He’s saved her life, and the lives of other Rangers dozens of times over, either that borrowed sixth sense of his or from just being damned good at his job.

The moment the elevator doors open, he’s out and barking orders and the little army of white coats dashes about to do his bidding, although there’s a cheerful casualness in it that’s missing from an actual launch, everyone moving at about a quarter speed to when there’s a real Kaiju spotted, when echoes from the warning sirens are bouncing all the way to Darktown.

Keran might still be nervous, but he’s also craning forward as quietly as he can, for a better view of the Jaeger through the window at the far side of the room.

The _Prophet Unchained_ was a Mark III, now carrying a new Mark IV lyrium engine along with the rest of its structural upgrades. It’s a thick-built Jaeger, indomitable - meant to draw fire, to stand up to a direct assault while the other teams get their shots in. Not that it can’t take care of itself, with a shield as tall as a merchant ship set on its edge resting in dry dock beside it, and a sword to match. The outer doors open, leading to the bay, and she looks good in the sunlight strong and ready for battle. Hawke can’t remember which blessing it carries, the name of the Paragon carved right into its engine core.

“I saw the fight where this one fell. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? A year.” Keran says, as they walk down the narrow catwalk to where the conn pod is waiting.

“Nearly two years.” The Shatterdome has ground crews to bang out the dents and scratches, but for bigger jobs they have to send the Jaegers back underground. The dwarves never let their secrets out of the thaigs, and the builders who leave for the surface don’t get to go back home. 

“I remember, they were fighting a Cat 4.” Keran says, “It never got into the bay, but the Rangers… they didn’t…”

Hawke shakes her head. “The Kaiju got on top of it, pinned it on its back under the water.”

It had been shallow water, at least by Jaeger standards. It shouldn’t have been a problem, shouldn’t have gone wrong, but it was and it did and the _Prophet Unchained_ popped its seals and flooded - water mixed with Kaiju blood. An ugly way to die, but they’d still taken the Kaiju down with them. Hawke hadn’t known the team well, but she’d been part of the recovery crew, prying the massive monster’s corpse away so they could bring back what was left of the Jaeger, and give the little that remained of the Rangers a proper pyre. 

Recovering most of the Jaeger had still nearly been a cause for celebration. 

Rangers weren’t superstitious, at least not when it came to piloting old Jaegers, although the name had been laid to rest with her pilots, a new title prepared for the new crew. The Grand Cleric herself would come to the Shatterdome for that, to pile the Maker’s blessings on the ship and her crew. 

If this is Aveline’s new Jaeger, she’ll be flying it under Kirkwall’s banner, though even with the crews from Val Royeaux there’s never all that much mention of politics, certainly nothing that matters during a fight. Every Ranger knows who the real enemy is.

Keran only startles a little as the crew locks him into the last of the interfacing, the thick bundle of wiring that attaches at his spine. A flurry of voices and motion and checks and rechecks surround them, prepping for launch. Hawke’s heart is pounding now, excited and primed for battle and even if there’s not going to be any punching, this is still the best way to spend a day.

It’s clear that Keran is slightly less thrilled - Hawke can see his vitals pinging wildly the moment they’re strapped in, his heart racing and probably not for the same reasons as hers.

“You all right there, Keran?”

“Yes.” It comes out more than a little strangled.

“Copy, Hawke.” Anders voice is clear and clipped, all business over the comm.

“All clear, Anders.” Hawke says, with Keran weakly echoing, and in another moment the last of the crew is out of the pod and a hard mechanical whir sounds out overhead, warning lights flashing as they’re lifted and slotted into place at the top of the Jaeger. Kirkwall wasn’t one of the best Shatterdomes for copter transport, tending to deploy straight from the bay instead.

“Don’t worry, Keran, we’ll keep her locked in place until you’re stable. Give it a bit, until you’re comfortable in the Drift. I’m going to bump you once or twice after that, see if you feel like chasing any rabbits. No surprises, I’ll talk you through the whole way. They haven’t loaded any weapons in her, so you can’t even blow up the Shatterdome. You know, unless you ask nice.”

Not the barest hint of a laugh, and Hawke leans forward in the harness, making sure to catch his eye.

“You’re going to be fine. My father said - well, he’ll tell you himself, in a minute. Anyone can pilot a Jaeger if they have the heart - that’s what the Drift’s all about, the heart. Just trust in that, and enjoy the ride.”

Anders is almost certainly rolling his eyes in the control tower, but maybe Keran looks a little bit relieved - and he nods, once, though it might be the sort of determination of a man facing a firing squad.

“Pilots, prepare for neural handshake in five… four…”

Hawke loves this part, poised and breathless, with a whole new world just waiting for her to fall into it.

“… Three… two… one.”

_Breathe, pup._

Hawke smiles, both here and in memory. _Hello, Father._

It’s her anchor memory, their home in Ferelden the first stop along the way. A small wood-paneled room where her Father taught her how to fight and how to Drift, to let her thoughts fall away like seeds on the wind. Surrendering the illusion of control.

_It’s all right pup. Nothing to be afraid of._

Hawke’s not afraid, she’s nine years old again, splashing and sprinting through the shallows with the foam at her ankles, Bethany laughing as she tries to keep up and Mother and Father on the shore and ahead of her, standing in the sun, and Carver yelling, left behind again and hating it - _Oh Carver, you prat, I miss you so much._

And then her thoughts are Keran’s thoughts and there’s the rush of memory, twenty years all at a go -

_-dared me to poke that bit of Kaiju on the beach I did it was just like stone Macha stop crying such a baby Mother why are you crying where’s Father gone? He’s not coming back and Mother’s always crying and something’s wrong, Keran something’s wrong with the baby Macha go run go get help so much blood it’s gone in all the woodwork. Mother in a Chantry grave Templars say they’ll take the boy but not the girl, his hand tight around hers we have to run Macha we have to run-_

Time skips and stutters wildly in the Drift, one breath and Hawke is years down the line.

_-going to make our fortune somehow Macha not this begging from town to town a summer’s work a few moments to himself a girl in a tavern and a black eye from her husband for the trouble but worth it for the way she’d grabbed him in that smoky kiss what do you mean a Blight no one alive has ever seen a Blight - run, Macha, give me your hand I don’t know just keep running, North we have to run North they say no Kaiju in the Anderfels but we’ll never get there, refugees ten deep to the foot move on, move on no work here Tevinters on the road watch yourself, watch your girl I’ll keep you safe Macha I promise only family I have left don’t let her see you’re afraid-_

Hawke knows this from the other side, for every one of his thoughts there’s one of her own to match it, the long nights and longer days, so much time in the Drift there’s nothing much left of her when she comes out. The Blight year is little more than the thick smell of metal and salt, of all but living in her drivesuit.

_-jobs in Kirkwall, the rumors say, cleaning up from the Blight, no way to know but no other choice. Working on the wall he sees his first Jaeger, the other men rushing to climb up higher and no one’s afraid, cheering as the Jaeger punched a lone Kaiju back down into the sea and Keran keeps his faith in Chantry and Maker and martyr but this - this is something to really believe in-_

The _Vir Assan_ , that’s the Jaeger he saw. One of the only Dalish Jaegers on the Archipelago. The Dalish didn’t leave home often - they were strange, and their science was stranger - but the Blight had forged all sorts of new alliances, and she’d enjoyed running backup while it had been with them, the Jaeger lean and sharp as a spearpoint.

_-doesn’t tell Macha, doesn’t tell anyone the first time he tries for Ranger, though it’s a week without pay and hard to make up the lack. Failure, too much he doesn’t know, a smarter man would at least know enough to give up but how can he? All this time, Macha a maid for a Hightown family and they’re still barely scraping by and it’s going to kill them, sooner or later - every few months a roof falls and takes a wall and a family with it or the chokedamp and a dozen people more. The second time he tries it feels like the Shatterdome’s the only decent sleep he’s had all year and it’s still not enough, he’s just not enough-_

_-in his head, that’s what they say, compatibility and if he can’t Drift there’s nothing he can do and it’ll just get someone killed to try. So he gives up but then Macha comes home oh Maker she can’t go back. The lord of the manor, it’s his child but he won’t admit it, she was caught by the lady and thrown out and if he were a better man Keran would fight him, force it out of him but he can’t even move, thinking of their mother and the blood on the floor and if Macha has the child here she will die he is sure of it-_

It’s not just about the money, then, but the life - two lives - it might save, and Hawke can all but taste Keran’s frantic desperation even as the first rush of the Drift fades, a tide drawing back from the shore. 

This is the point that Sebastian tried to kick her out, all those defenses he didn’t want to admit to - fear of rejection, of being unworthy - a lifetime of built-up doubts bucking her like a wild horse. If it’s going to go sour, this is when it starts, but Keran’s just afraid, not so much of who he is or where he’s come from but of failing, of somehow not being enough for whoever’s in his head and it’s a hell of a thing to try and brace for. What will it do to him and is it going to hurt and -

Hawke laughs at the startled, fluttery feeling that goes all the way through her, when he realizes he’s already in the middle of it.

“Congratulations, Ranger. You’re Drifting.”

His very next thought, unsurprisingly, is of her and Isabela together in a truly inspiring and sweaty human pretzel. So at least everyone’s still up on the latest gossip - and Hawke feels Keran’s absolute horror, her stomach bottoming out as the images pile on top of each other in an orgy of embarrassment and… well, an orgy of orgies, obviously.

Hawke laughs. “It’s okay, Keran. It’s nothing I haven’t seen bef- wow. Really?” No, she’s not nearly that flexible, but it’s kind of him to think so.

A few moments more and those thoughts recede on their own, no new humiliations jumping in to take their place, and then it’s just the constant, steady stream of his thoughts and her thoughts pinging back and forth in the same small space.

“C’mon Keran, talk to me. Out loud. You doing okay?”

It takes him a minute to answer, she can feel him struggling to find the separation, to remember how to speak.

“… Strange. It’s uh, really… Wow.”

“Just keep talking. Take it easy, focus on the externals as much as you can. The Drift’s just a tool, you don’t have to get caught up in it.”

“A-all right. I’ll try. I don’t…”

The link isn’t as solid as it ought to be, their thoughts not quite sliding into alignment. It’s easier when there’s a Kaiju coming, an imminent threat with no time to worry or be afraid, not with a whole city counting on them - and she’s pleased when _that’s_ the thought to tip it, Keran’s determination locking into place with her own. Hawke shifts, breathing steady as she feels his trepidation sliding away. He wants to be ready. He wants to fight.

“Okay then, Keran. I’m going to try and bump you now, see if you feel like rabbiting before Anders lets us go.” Hawke keeps her own thoughts confident. “Just try to stay focused - if you do slip, I’ll be there to pull you out, or we’ll just start over. We’ve got all day.”

“Okay. I… I’m ready.” Keran almost doesn’t make it sound like a question.

It used to be harder to force a slip, but now Hawke only has to brace herself and lift the lid on all those memories she keeps locked down. Thoughts are harder to control in the Drift, all thrashing and wild, and it doesn’t help that her worst day happened in a conn-pod just like this one - _rocked and shattered, crushed beneath a Kaiju like nothing she’d ever seen and they were going to die but they had to take it out, they were going to die but they had to_ -

“Hawke.” Anders’ voice in her ear, calm against the storm of chaos. “Keep it focused, your readings-”

_Bethany, wild-eyed, her sister’s desperate thought as her own and Hawke would have done anything to stop her, had to stop her - no, Bethy, please no don’t-_

“I’ve got it,” Hawke says, though her teeth are gritted against the drag of it, trying to pull her down. 

Keran stays steady, nothing knocked free, no looming memories rising up to swallow him whole. Only his sadness, a match to her own as he loses Bethany too, and a fluttering of his own worry and fear. Everyone’s lost something to the Kaiju, in one way or another. They’re all in this together. 

“Anders, we’re steady. Give us a little room to breathe?”

It’s no light weight, when the Jaeger comes on line and they’re underneath the full load - sacks of flour, that’s Keran’s thought, loading them down at the docks and they’d throw on extra now and then, to try and knock him off balance - and she hears him grunt slightly, but they hold. The Drift holds, and after a moment it stops feeling like they’re trying to balance a building on an eggshell, and the sense of all that weight and power shifts into something safe. Sturdy. 

_No._ Hawke grins, and knows that Keran shares her smile. _Unstoppable._

One quick check, left and right calibration, the final mark of a successful Drift, and they take their first steps out into the sun.

—————————————————————

Hawke’s soaked through and dripping sweat as she peels out of her drivesuit. She’s supposed to change in the lab, but she only gets half out before giving up and letting gravity take over, dropping to middle of the floor instead. The cool metal feels wonderful against her back as she listens to the muffled tap-tap-thud of Anders’ slow approach.

Drifting has all sorts of odd after-effects, depending on the Ranger and the duration. Exhaustion, giddiness, depression, disorientation - all to be expected in any combination. None of Keran’s memories are likely to last, it takes at least a few times for shared histories to stick, even longer for habits and quirks. Aveline, for example, knows exactly how regular mabari crunch tastes compared to the double-baked variety, and Hawke knows she’ll never be forgiven for it.

The test had gone perfectly, for Jaeger and Ranger both, the great machine moving flawlessly through all its paces. Five minutes out, and Hawke knew it would be easy to find Keran a partner - everything in him was raw excitement as they crossed the bay, though he still took care with the ships that crossed their path, the sailors waving and cheering as he lifted one great hand to wave back.

Keran was wiped out by the end of it, but he’d been grinning like a fool. Hawke’s feeling much the same now, her usual post-Drift self, giddy and hyper-tactile. Cuddly, by Isabela’s reckoning. A bit too uncoordinated for any real fun, more like a fairly decent blanket ready to laugh at everyone’s jokes.

“One down, fifteen to go.” she says to Anders’ shoes as they come into view. “Keran did good. No surprises, he even made it out of the Jaeger under his own power. Mostly. About as well as it can go for a first run.”

Anders doesn’t answer, which means she’s right, which means he’s pouting.

Hawke rolls onto her side, reaching out and trying to poke at his ankle, grumbling when he moves it away. Instead, she taps on the glass of the nearest storage container - another brain, or half of one. Human, this time, bobbing indifferently in what looks like a pale green slime.

“… just can’t imagine why anyone’s got a problem with science.”

“Science? This?” Anders makes a derisive sound. “I swear, sometimes I think we’re just rabbiting through the Magisters’ old mistakes, an eternity stuck in the loops of dead men. Of course, that’s still better than the Chantry expecting us to just bang rocks together and pray for miracles.”

“So I’m thinking Cullen didn’t go for the autopsy plan?”

Anders makes a sound like a sullen engine slowly grinding stones. “Why let helping people get in the way of a little illiterate theocracy?”

Hawke makes the extra effort to give his foot a sympathetic pat. He’ll get over it - or more likely, find another way to get what he wants. Anders is nothing if not resourceful. 

“Karl says to flush the cache tonight, so he can get things set up for tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorr-“ He looks up at her, and doesn’t even bother finishing the sentence. “Who was going to clear that with me?”

“He’s on it, and I’m on it. Or I will be. It’s not even a Jaeger run, just a Drift in the pod. Easy.”

“Two Drifts in two days with two different know-nothing pilots?”

She snorts. “You tell me that wasn’t a cake walk. You’re going have to come up with a whole new smug smile for presenting that data to the Marshall.”

Ser Pounce has uncurled from his nap and noticed there are people in the room not paying attention to him, and so Hawke is quickly bombarded by a fuzzy, purring paperweight, the kitten nuzzling at her hand and biting at her fingertips before showing his real affection by trying to curl up on her face. She laughs, spitting out cat hair, and only has to move him twice before he takes the hint and settles down on her stomach, tail flicking back and forth as he keeps an eye on Anders, in case any treats are forthcoming.

“Keran’s sister’s pregnant. It’s the reason he came back for the third go - he’s terrified she’s not going to make it.”

Anders is staring at the results of the Drift, and doesn’t turn toward her. “I can’t imagine why, what with greater Kirkwall’s dazzling medical expertise. A true beacon in the dark.”

“Can you stop being a shit for one minute? Sixty seconds?”

“Thirty.”

“Deal.” Hawke sighs. “So this is where I ask you to help him, obviously. Make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“How far along is she?”

Hawke frowns, sifting through Keran’s memories, all still relatively fresh. “Six months, maybe?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem, especially now that he’s officially part of the program. If nothing else, we can make sure she’s getting enough food. Tell him to have her come in.” Anders taps the screen, her Drift and Keran’s, and Hawke can sort of read it but it’s depressing, how little it looks like compared to how it feels. 

“I have studied these until my eyes cross, Hawke, and I still don’t know how you do what you do. You’re actively changing his Drift pattern, you know that? You adapt to him, and then he follows your lead, and he does in an hour what most candidates aren’t doing for six months or more. It doesn’t degrade either, throw one of yours in with a new partner and they’re still just as compatible. That shouldn’t happen. You shouldn’t happen.”

Hawke shrugs. 

“Father knew what he was on about.”

“I wish he’d have left some notes behind - or made a couple more of you to go around.”

“.. so do I.”

It was supposed to be that way, it had always been the end goal. Malcolm Hawke and his little brood of Rangers-to-be, ready to go out, kick Kaiju ass and change the world - but here she is, alone. 

The longer he stands there, the more Anders starts to hunch over, one hand creeping up to his temple, the back of his neck. Hurting again, worse than before, and Hawke finally nudges Ser Pounce to the floor, slowly getting to her feet. It takes a little longer than it should to find her balance, but soon enough she’s up and moving to the nearest cabinet, shaking a few pills out from one of the many bottles inside. Anders grumbles, but dry-swallows what she gives him without argument. 

Hawke hesitates a moment - there’s never any telling with Anders, days when he can’t even bear to be within a foot of another human being, but he doesn’t flinch when her hand touches the back of his neck, and she digs her fingers in a little. He’s all knots, the scientist a pile of cascading maladies for as long as she’s known him. The reward for survival. On the good days, Anders laughs about how much there is to learn from being a one-man trauma ward. On the bad days he says nothing at all.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Anders laughs, light and mocking. “The pot keeps calling, but the kettle won’t answer. Something about black.”

“The pot can handle a couple of back-to-backs. The kettle’s went and upped his dosages again.” Anders frowns, but Hawke shakes her head. “Nobody tattled on you, I can snoop through your supplies just fine on my own.”

Since Anders is already doing his illegal research, and his illegal weapons design, there’s no reason not to add semi-illegal drug manufacture to the list. It’s likely the most defensible of his activities, nearly all of it painkillers and good deal of it for himself. The overflow goes to the clinic in Darktown that shouldn’t exist, of course, because when Anders _does_ care, it’s with everything he’s got.

Hawke might not have been so quick to hand the book over, if she’d known which Magister it belonged to. Anders will kill himself to prove the utility of Corypheus’ research. It’s not just about saving the world for him - it’s penance, maybe the only chance he thinks he’ll get to try. Hawke knows how long he’s been looking for the opportunity, and here she is giving him all the kindling he needs to build a pyre on.

“I’m fine. It’s just the weather.” Anders grins. “The only man in Kirkwall who prefers a rainy day.”

Hawke considers pressing him on it, but unless she’s ready to knock him out and toss him over her shoulder, there’s not much more she can do. 

“So… what’s this I hear about you electrocuting Templars?”

“Only the ugly ones.”

“Well, that narrows it down.”

He pauses, a grim set to his mouth. “Two of them were after Ella. I stepped in before things could get any worse. Unfortunately, the Vice-Marshall stepped in before I could convince them not to try it again.”

“Ella?” Hawke says, trying to place the name to a face. A young girl from the labs, one of Orsino’s. Wide-eyed, and smart as anything when she’s not too nervous to speak. “Oh, dear. She already knows you’re a genius, now you go and save her life? Heartbreaker.”

Hawke doesn’t have to see his eyes to know when they’re rolling. As far as she knows, he’s tossed any thoughts of romance aside, even on his best days. One more thing burned to ash in him, left behind and abandoned with the Tower. 

“The Vice-Marshall had a trainee with him.” Anders says.

“Oh?”

“An ex-Ranger from Tevinter, of all places.” His voice is as light as the spring on a baited trap. “Some elf that made a break for it.”

“Huh. Can’t say I blame him. Did he mention a name?”

“Hawke.”

“Huh, coincidence.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “ _Hawke._ “

She grins. “Anders?”

However he is now, Karl assures her that Anders was in and out of beds and breaking hearts all over the Tower in his day. All that is long gone, but Hawke can still feel the echo of it as he reaches out to cup her face in his hands.

“ _No_ , Hawke.”

She laughs. “Why do you even think I’ve seen him? I mean, Isabela’s the one who stole his shirt.”

Anders sighs, the last sane man in the world. “So I _am_ the last one to know about the psychotic elf wandering loose in the Shatterdome?”

“Aveline says that Donnic says he’s all right. A little edgy, maybe, but who wouldn’t be?” Hawke says. “He’s looking for a place to start over. It might as well be here. Maker knows we could use him.”

It sounds almost indifferent. Anders knows better. “How is this your problem to solve?”

“We both know how well Meredith handles ‘complications’ - she’d toss him back out the gates rather than look at him twice - she’s already told me so.”

Anders sighs, as if he’d much rather be talking sense to the cat. “Again, I ask, how is this-“

“Were you my problem, Anders?”

It’s easy to fight with him. Half the time Anders sort of demands it, swiping with half-hearted bids at whomever happens to be in range - argument as gladiatorial sport. Except this isn’t that, no matter how much she’d prefer a pissy scientist to a serious one. It’s one thing to argue with him when he’s yelling back, but when Anders goes quiet and still Hawke is on far less certain ground.

“Karl is a lot better at the save-you-from-yourself speech,” she says, finally. “Want me to go get him?”

“You don’t understand, Hawke. I’ve heard horror stories of what Tevinter puts its Rangers through - if you can even call him a Ranger. There’s not one of them fighting anywhere outside of the Imperium, not _one_. It’s not just a matter of incompatibility. What he’s survived, and how… he’s not some farm boy fresh from the field. His Drift patterns, his memories - the Magisters make their Rangers into weapons, and everything else gets cut away. What’s left up there… for all I know there’s nothing left. Nothing worth seeing, at any rate.”

“Anders-“

“I don’t want him in your head, Hawke. I don’t.” He paces a little, reaches up behind dark glasses to rub at his eyes, and his voice gentles dangerously. “I know why you’re doing this. I know what it’s about.”

“It’s about getting the numbers we need to beat Val Royeaux. It’s about doing what Meredith wants, so she doesn’t start thinking too hard about you flinging around lightning bolts. You keep throwing down with Templars and I’ve got to have something to beg her off with.”

“Choose someone else as your partner. Choose this one, what’s his name - Keran. He’s harmless enough. You’re the Champion, you can choose _anyone_ else.”

“What’s his score?”

“Damn it, Hawke.”

“How do the numbers look?”

“He’s good. You already know that. It took him a little in the sims, but what I’ve seen - reaction time, attack speed - he’s very, very good. He was built to be that way, and I imagine whoever he ran from is feeling the loss.” Anders shakes his head. “It’s still a horrible idea, and may I remind you I’m _made_ of horrible ideas. I don’t… I… ah, _damn_ …”

Anders stops, and winces, and the wince becomes a grimace and with a hiss of pain the argument is over, Hawke poised to go for the lights or the drugs, just waiting for a sign and hoping the sign isn’t him falling over. He waves at the already-dim lights, and Hawke quickly moves to throw the room into darkness, only a few of the specimen tanks backlit by the faint glow of his screens and it probably says nothing complimentary about her, that Hawke doesn’t find it the least bit unnerving.

“Do you need…”

“I’m fine. I’m fine, this is… just give me a minute.”

Hawke sits down next to him, not quite touching. After a moment he leans against her, his head on her shoulder, and they sit there for a while until he stops trembling, and his breathing is even again. Ser Pounce twines around their ankles, purring madly. At least someone’s happy.

“You’ve got to slow down, Anders.” Hawke reaches out in the dark, closing her hand carefully around his. “We’ve got too much to do, and I need you with me. I’m not… I can’t put anyone else on a pyre.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, with this elf. I know… with your sister - trying to make up for what you think you’ve done. Believe me, I… Maker, it’s not like they’re not still all up in here with me.” Hawke can feel him shift, tapping lightly at his temple. “That’s the worst of it, not the Kaiju - well, sometimes not the Kaiju.” He sighs, deeply. “Lily held out on us for the longest time, did I ever tell you that? I argued with her for hours - she thought for sure we were all going to get killed, that I was going to get everyone killed. Jowan finally convinced her - or he guilted her into it. I can still feel how much she loved him.”

“You know the last thought my sister had, before she yanked me me out of the Drift?” The darkness isn’t just for his sake. Hawke’s fairly certain she wouldn’t be having this conversation if she could see the look on his face. “ _I can be as brave as you._ ‘ Bethany took that hit because she thought I was stronger, the one the Rangers needed more. I’m the one who always does what’s right. She sacrificed everything she is, because she believed in me, that I wouldn’t let her down.”

“Hawke…”

“I’m going to help him, Anders. I have to. Anything less, and my sister’s gone for nothing - and then what’s left of me?”

Anders doesn’t like it, and he’s probably right, but they both know how much of a difference that’s ever made.

“At least let Karl check him over first. Let’s make sure he even _can_ Drift before I take another shot at arguing you out of permanent brain damage.”

“You’re just keeping the best of it for yourself.”

“True enough.”

The worst of Anders’ attack seems to be over, but Hawke is content to stay where she is, Ser Pounce wedged in between them and what passes for peace and quiet in the Shatterdome, just the slight tremors in the floor from work going on some dozen floors below. She thinks Anders has fallen asleep when he finally speaks, very softly.

“Do you ever wonder how many people in how many ages sat together in the dark, and wondered how much longer it could possibly go on?”

“I’m just grateful that the answer to all my problems seems to be ‘punch it harder.’”

Anders chuckles softly, more air than sound. 

“I wish you could have known me before. I was a better man.”

“I like the man I know.”


	8. Chapter 8

Being back in a lab is a good thing. It’s the right thing, when so many recruits didn’t make it half this far. It’s the whole point to all this, and if things go as well as Fenris needs them to, this place will be as much of a second home as it ever was in Tevinter. 

Now there’s a thought to make him cringe, but Fenris crushes it instead, tries to breathe steady and doesn’t move. This is the way forward, the only way - it’s that simple. His choice this time, and at least there’s no restraints on these tables, no clinking of chains or weeping in shadowed corners. He has endured far worse than this, even if it all still smells much the same.

Victory never feels quite the way it should, does it?

_We cannot afford weakness, little wolf. No tarnishing our grand endeavors._

Fenris snarls back at that memory, but it chuckles just like the man.

_So eager to bow to a new master, are we, Fenris? One might almost think you missed me._

It would help if there were some distraction, some way to stop looking - but no, not here, not when his eyes catch on every glint of metal or glass beneath the chalky light, the sterile, sour stink of it in the back of his throat, as if he’s swallowing bile. He’s looking for the threat in every unknown bundle of wire or stray needle, straining to see it coming as if that ever was of any use, always new agony from some unexpected source. 

Danarius was not always cruel to a purpose.

The door was open but the room stands empty, and Fenris listens to the sound of his own too-loud breathing in the silence. It is a death sentence to enter a Magister’s laboratory without permission, and even here he ought to know better but recklessness is the only thing that keeps him from running and so Fenris carefully makes his way around the room, touching nothing, taking in the familiar and unfamiliar alike. 

No such thing as Drift compatibility in the Imperium, and Fenris can’t help but wonder why they even bother here, if Kirkwall is in such need of defenses. Danarius used to let him choose the other Indentured, the ones they’d take out for a fight. A privilege the Magister had so generously granted, as men and women stared at him as if Fenris was the one who’d put them in irons, or else paid no attention at all, resigned to the inevitable. Fenris tried to take his time with the choice, and pretend that somehow made it better - and hopes he is not pretending now. 

On the far side of the room the lights are dimmed, though the stacks of specimens in murky bottles would look horrifying regardless, a macabre mosaic of body parts and Kaiju flesh. He’d think he was back in the Imperium again if it all weren’t so scratched and worn, nearly every machine with signs of patchwork repair. It’s brighter where he stands, a few examination tables surrounded by softly whirring machines, chalkboards covered in arcane markings and lines of code. A reminder he doesn’t need, of what he really ought to fear here - all the technician has to do is ask him to fill out a form and he’s doomed. Unlikely they’ll let a man become a Ranger who can’t write the word.

One wall is covered with diagrams, charts and graphs and odd pictures - Fenris knows what they are. He’s sat in rooms like this and watched Magisters talk shop, trying to determine which technique would be the most efficient or extract the most information or how to chain as many Indentured as possible without losing them all to the neural load, too much strain even without a Jaeger. He wonders what this technician studies, or wants to study, and how many of the people whose minds are illuminated before him still live.

“You must be the Ranger from Tevinter.”

Fenris flinches, barely manages to keep himself from jumping. He turns to see a man of middling height and unthreatening looks, the kind of man that he could likely break over his knee without too much effort and oh how Fenris hates this, he _hates_ this, to be so cowed by shadow and memory.

“Karl Thekla, Drift technician. It’s… Fenris, right? I’ve heard a good deal about you.” He’s never had one offer their name before, an Indentured Pilot worth no more consideration than any other spare part, a waste of conversation at best. Thankfully, this Karl seems unoffended by his silence. 

“If you’d like to take a seat, we can get started.”

He gestures to a low bench and turns away, gathering a few instruments from a side table. Fenris is already exhausted, a few moments in this room so much worse than endless drills or laps and nothing’s even happened yet.

At least he’s aware of where it will start, what makes him most valuable, and he has his shirt off before he can be asked, as if he doesn’t care. The scientists in Tevinter all looked at him with eyes like scalpels, all certain he’d be even more interesting without his skin. One of the only times he’d been anything approaching grateful for Danarius’ jealousy, that his bodyguard was too valuable a secret to share. 

“I suppose we should begin with the basics, before…”

Karl turns, blinks. He stares a bit, though perhaps not over where to make the first cut.

“Maker help us, Dagna’s going to lose her _mind_ when she sees you. I hope you have a couple of spare weeks lined up.” The tech steps closer, perhaps fascinated, though there seems to be nothing worse lurking in his gaze, and though his hands follow the path of the marks on Fenris’ arms, tracing through the air, he does not touch.

“Obviously paying attention to the muscle…. but was it for a purpose or just…” he murmurs to himself, and Fenris is familiar enough with that, men of science disappearing into their own thoughts, closing the door on the rest of the world, “… and perhaps… but how in the _world_ did they…” Karl looks up suddenly, and Fenris forces himself to stay still. “So, can you phase through anything or is it only organic matter?”

Fenris startles, though his secret had no particular value before this - and now it seems entirely worthless. An unnecessary reminder, that even this man knows more from a glance about what’s been done to him than he does.

“You’ve… seen this before?”

“Maker, no.” Karl says, not seeming to notice he’s struck any blows. “It’s only rumor and theory here, if that. Conjectures tossed back and forth after one too many at the bar. We couldn’t get clearance to try half of this on a dead nug, and that’s not marking the cost of the lyrium.” He grimaces then, drawing back from his avid contemplation. “I apologize. I shouldn’t speak as if it’s not a part of you. Did they ever explain how any of this was done?”

“I don’t… recall much of the procedure.” He says stiffly. 

None of it, and even if he remembered what came before, Fenris doubts anyone bothered to give him the details. He has nothing useful to offer, and it would be much easier if the look in Karl’s eyes was disappointment and not concern. 

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

He’s trying to be kind. Or he’s looking for an opening, one of those men who gets more satisfaction from trickery than force. Fenris has no reason to answer, in either case, but once more Karl doesn’t take offense, as if his silence is expected.

“I’d love to get a few sketches down later, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Fenris doubts there is a part of him left that isn’t in a vial somewhere in Tevinter, and this man thinks a few drawings are asking too much?

“No, I… wouldn’t mind.”

No more than anything else, at least. It’s always too intimate, being worked on in the labs, even at the best of times. Always too close, having someone’s hands on him, even if it’s just to take a reading or adjust a sensor. Fenris feels stripped in ways that have nothing to do with bare skin, but Karl’s touch is light and careful and never lingers. Maybe he’s actually one of the good ones. There were a few scientists like that in Tevinter, either too new to have learned the value of being cruel, or truly without the stomach for it - not that they tended to last very long. 

“Your pulse is a bit high.” Karl says. “Are you all right? Cold?”

“I’m fine.”

The brittle denial fools no one. Karl knows. Of course he knows, with enough machines hooked up now to measure anything he’d like to see, charting Fenris’ discomfort along a dozen different paths and this is just the basic physical, they haven’t even gotten to the Drift testing yet. He wonders how they do that here, and what it all looks like inside the Jaeger. In Tevinter there were chains because of course there were, and a collar at his throat because of course they did.

Karl hisses slightly, yanking his hand back at a sudden spark from the lyrium on his arm as he tries to take a reading. Fenris has been struck for half so much, but the tech only grins, shaking the feeling back into his fingertips.

“I don’t suppose you know how they insulated your drivesuit, to keep the lyrium from overloading the connections?” He doesn’t seem at all annoyed when Fenris again has no answer, his eyes narrowing in thoughtful determination. Fenris knows that look, that he has become a puzzle to be solved. It would be alarming, if the man had made any other dangerous move, but even the door to the lab has been open all this time, and that hardly seems an accident. Karl rarely moves out of Fenris’ range of vision, and mentions what he’s doing as he picks up each instrument - a casual thing, talking as he works, and perhaps that is just the way he is. He would hardly be the first white coat Fenris has known to spend more time speaking to the air than to other men.

Fenris knows he ought to be grateful, not annoyed - cutting potential allies off at the knees is no way to go through life, and he’s smart enough to know it. He’s smart enough for a lot of things, and yet no matter what he tells himself, whatever vows he makes there is the man he wants to be and the man he is and they seem impossible to reconcile.

“Karl, you in here?”

Fenris tenses, and in the corner of his eye he sees a readout twitch nervously in response, because he knows that voice. He catches the barest glimpse of a figure silhouetted in the doorway and then there’s only the sound of drawers opening and closing madly, papers flying through the air and the occasional glimpse of movement between bottles and filing cabinets on the other side of the lab, the sound of drawers being quickly rifled through. Karl, for his part, seems as unconcerned as ever.

“I thought you had that meeting.”

Anders makes a frustrated sound. “I will be as soon as I find that thing. I should have had it with me, but…”

“Third drawer, in the back.” Karl doesn’t even look up.

“I already looked there!” 

“Check again.” 

The frantic shuffling of artifacts takes on a distinctly sulky air. 

“No, the other thing! Damn it, I’m late already, and-“

“Anders, the drawer.”

“I _told_ you I already checked and - oh.” 

The complaining cuts off, and Karl smiles into the silence.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry, Karl. I just - you know I can’t give them any reason to-”

Anders comes around the side of the table, the cane and the dark glasses and this time no sign of any Tevinter tech but that doesn’t really mean anything. It doesn’t really matter if Karl is kind or not, when he’s obviously not the one in charge - and Fenris hates the way his body tenses, the wary way he’s watching for the first sign of Anders’ disapproval. As if there’s anything he can do - if he fights back he forfeits everything, and if he doesn’t - but he will. No matter the consequences, this time he will fight. Better to be a mad thing and put down for it than to ever bow his head again. 

Fenris waits, and the air fills with the waiting.

Anders finally shifts his gaze, dark glasses tipping ever so slightly toward Karl. “How’d it go, this morning? I’m surprised you’re not still there.”

So he’s choosing to pretend Fenris isn’t there at all, though that’s not much of a slight. Fenris has often been talked over or around. It’s the way to learn and survive in in the Imperium and he can keep his silence even with the man standing much too close.

“He rabbited right out of the gate. Hawke tried to re-align, but she couldn’t hold him. We were done before we started.”

Anders knows Hawke, and now this Karl is one of hers, too? Fenris wishes he believed in coincidence, as the chain that isn’t around his throat pulls one notch tighter. 

“You tried again?”

Karl shakes his head. “It took him the better part of an hour just to start breathing right. He’s out for good.”

“Is Hawke-”

Karl makes a face, the perfect balance of amused and annoyed. “No one left bleeding from the eyes, I promise.”

Anders wants to say more, but not with an audience, and Fenris knows he’s being glared at through the dark glasses and returns the look in kind, the ache in his jaw now stretching down into his spine and he wonders how Karl’s machines are betraying him now.

“You going to be all right here?” As if Anders considers him some feral thing, not to be trusted, and doesn’t want Fenris to miss the point.

“Go on, you’ll be late.”

One last glance in Fenris’ direction and he sweeps out the door, leaving behind a vast and loaded silence, though Karl carries the hint of a wry smile at the corner of his mouth, jotting down a few more notes.

“So, I see you’ve met Anders. You’ll have to excuse him for being a little… well, _Anders_. I promise, his heart’s in the right place.”

Fenris can think of a few better places for it, but for once he manages to keep silent. A few more moments pass quietly, without questions or orders or anything yet that Fenris knows of the way these examinations are supposed to go. He’s just about gathered the courage to ask when the technician finally speaks.

“I suppose that’s it for the basics, issues of lyrium notwithstanding.” Karl says. “Normally, we’d move on to the Drift scans, but I think… perhaps we’ve done enough for the day?”

No, they haven’t, not if he’s being prepped to pilot. Fenris feels the sharp spike of panic, and more than one of those machines echoes in response.

“What? Why?” 

Karl looks closely at him for a moment, musing - and without warning, the scientist’s hand is at his throat - or it would be, if Fenris didn’t have that wrist in a crushing grip and his other hand already moving to strike. It’s only at the last moment that Fenris realizes Karl is not fighting back, no tension there, no force or malice even with a flash of lyrium fire blazing between them and his own fist a bare half-inch from going right through the other man’s chest.

He falters. The fire flickers and fades.

“I… I apologize.”

Karl doesn’t step away, doesn’t even flinch, and Fenris wonders just where he comes from and what he’d seen there. 

“I think you might be laboring under a few misconceptions on how things work around here. I’m your tech, I work for you, and in Kirkwall that means that if I do anything you don’t approve of, the Templars come and put me in a very dark place for a very long time. You have nothing to fear from me.”

Yes he does, because Karl hasn’t yet come out and made his demands, exactly what he’ll have to do to ensure his place in the program. Fenris can’t ask, because he wants to keep pretending he won’t bargain. Maybe it won’t be bad, if the man truly wants nothing more than a closer study of the lyrium. A few sketches, maybe a little blood and he’ll lose interest when he realizes Fenris isn’t lying about how little else he knows. 

It’s better not to think how much he’d give up just to not be in this room anymore.

“If I’m the problem, I can recommend another Drift tech. We have a few elves here, and women, if either would make you more comfortable.”

“No, I… it’s fine.”

It’s a lie, but for whatever reason Karl doesn’t call him on it, only pauses a moment before moving on to what must be the next step, shifting wires, moving monitors, letting Fenris pull on the overlay by himself, only pausing to shift a sensor or two near the back of his head. Fenris waits as he’s been waiting, for the worst to come, and he waits and realizes he’s holding his breath right around the time it’s clear that Karl has no matching equipment of his own. The man’s not actually going to force a Drift to do this work, the usual shortcut Danarius preferred. Maybe that… doesn’t happen at all, here. Who knows? Fenris is flying blind.

“You all right, then?”

He nods, not quite trusting his voice.

“It’s a bit less impressive than what they’ve got where you’re from, I’m sure.” Karl says, with what sounds almost like an apology. “I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re not the most popular group in the Shatterdome. The Marshall would be done with the lot of us if she could figure out how.”

“You could have chosen otherwise. You aren’t bound to this life.”

“You think I should have been a farmer?” Karl chuckles at the thought. “I suppose I could have settled down somewhere far from the shore, with some sheep and a vegetable patch.” He shrugs. “Blood will out, I’m afraid. I would have started tinkering here or there, studying the animals, trying to improve a harvest, and from there - it doesn’t take much at all, most times, and they’d have me drowned in a well just for safety’s sake. I do good work here, despite the… complications. Work that needs doing.”

Fenris doesn’t have an answer for that. He’d certainly be satisfied to live in a world that had never heard of Magisters, as if it hadn’t been all their fault in the first place, their poison in the warp and weft of every stitch in Thedas. Monsters, and how the world must still bend to the demands of more monsters in order to survive. 

He wonders what that thought might look like, grudging acceptance tinged with bitterness, as Karl finally taps a few keys and begins his study in earnest. All his work, all the effort just to be helpless in this moment, with nothing he can do to change the outcome. 

Fenris watches as Karl’s face goes slowly and carefully blank and he thinks, not for the first time, that it would be very easy, for one elf to just disappear here. He knows his value well enough, and kind words are nice but little against the truth of the world. Fenris really has very little chance to save himself, if they decided to just tear him open and let Tevinter’s secrets spill free.

“I’ve heard it said they don’t always use pairs of Rangers in the Imperium?” Karl finally says. “I’m not sure I understand how that works.”

“It is… preferable for most Magisters to have the security of a few additional minds, to absorb the strain of battle.”

Or to test a theory. Or because it’s fashionable. 

“I’m not following. The Drift would still... wouldn't it be counterproductive to-”

“The Drift goes one-way from the prime pilot, with control and orders to his subordinate, who… coordinates for the rest of the team.” He can talk around it like this, using the words the Magisters did, stripped of emotion or care, but Fenris still feels the words strain like too-thin glass beneath the weight, cracking at the edges. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Karl looking at him, but he does not look back.

“… how many were in there with you?”

“The life of one Indentured is the same as any other. It was not so difficult.”

He wonders when Karl is going to call him on such blatant lies, when his scans and his tests must already show just how broken he is. He’s not in danger because there’s nothing worth saving. Karl will be kind about it, of course, and Fenris will snap at him anyway and all this stupid worry was for nothing. Whatever the Vice-Marshall wanted with him, even he’ll have reason to change his mind now. At least Karl has turned back to his screen.

“Do you ever have any migraines? Tremors? Memory loss?” 

Fenris can’t tell a lie that won’t sound like the truth. 

“My memory is… hazy, in places. Recent events are fine, but the distant past is-“ _Gone_. “-less clear.” 

Karl says nothing, and continues with his measurements and readings, occasionally asking a question but nothing personal, all reflex and breathing and follow-this-light-please and Fenris bites his tongue until he cannot stand it any longer, and still has to swallow twice, hard, before the words will come.

“Am I fit for service?”

The laugh startles him, and Karl’s expression is strange and baffling, a sad sort of smile. “Oh, bless you for thinking my opinion matters.”

He doesn’t understand, and the technician makes a vague gesture of apology.

“Nevermind, it’s nothing. I… why would you ever want to go back inside? Do you think you can ever trust anyone enough to do it again?

No. Of course not, but that’s not going to matter. Whatever they think here about Drifting he’s lived it for years, and Fenris knows it’s not about trust or equality - it’s nothing more complicated than endurance, and if he can bear it there he can bear it here and if… if he can choose this, if it’s his decision… that’s what it means. A chance to prove it wasn’t all Danarius, that some small, strong, _worthy_ part of it of it had been his own. A chance to prove he’s not… broken - that he deserves to go on.

“I have-“ _Nothing else._ “I have to try. I… I have to.”

Karl looks as if he wants to protest that, but stops himself. “I won’t say we don’t need every strong arm we can get. If you want this that badly, I won’t be the one to stand in your way.” 

“Congratulations, Fenris.”

The soft, dull voice catches them both off guard. Tranquil can be good at that.

“Bethany!” Karl’s voice is as warm and welcoming as it would be if she could appreciate it, maybe even more so. “You’re early today. Everything all right?” He looks between them in surprise. "Making friends again, are we?”

“Bethany was kind enough to show me around my first day.” Fenris says. “I was lost, and she helped me.”

“Ah, that would be our Beth.” Karl says. The girl has an envelope in one hand. Fenris can see no markings on it, but Karl’s expression grows suddenly fixed and grim. He takes it from her, barely glancing at the pages before sealing it shut again. 

“Maker, please, tell me she’s not serious…”

“Mother said it would be better for you to have it as soon as possible.”

“Wait, she’s here? Now?”

“Yes.” Bethany says.

“… she’s with your sister, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Obviously not the answer he’d been hoping to hear. Karl looks to the ceiling a moment, running a hand through his hair.

“They do not wish for me to see them argue.” 

“No, I imagine they don’t.” Karl says. “Nothing to be done, I suppose. If she wants to do this all again, we’ll do it again, and it’ll all end like it did before.”

“I am a distraction.” Bethany says. “A potential liability to the program.”

Karl’s eyes narrow. “Who said that to you? I know it wasn’t your sister.”

“It is the truth. I make her sad.”

He sighs. “Whether you’re here or not, I don’t think that’s going to change.” His eyes flick over to Fenris for a moment, as if remembering he’s still there. “I have some work I need to finish up, Beth. You’re welcome to stay, of course, or I think they might need some help down in the bays.”

“I would prefer to be of use.”

“Of course you do, love. Of course you do. Go on down then, and I’ll let Hawke know where you’ve gone.”

“Goodbye, Fenris. I am glad you have found what you wanted.”

In that dead tone, it sounds more like a curse than a kindness. Bethany leaves, pretty and hollow, and Fenris listens until the last of her footsteps fade. 

“Of course, she’s not really glad - she’s not really anything. Bethany asked if we would prefer it it, if she tried to say things like other people do. Even though she can’t feel it, she can tell when we’re upset, and she… she believes things should be as efficient as they can.” Karl glances down at the envelope once more. “Do they have Tranquil in Tevinter?”

“It does happen.”

“I don’t suppose they have any kind of treatment?”

“They kill them.” 

Karl nods. “Ah, yes. I… I suppose that should have been rather obvious.”

Fenris isn’t sure exactly what makes it click, something to do with how Karl looks, sad and thoughtful against the backdrop of images, dozens of scans that, on closer inspection, don’t look so different from one another and all at once he thinks, maybe…

“You take care of her, don’t you?”

“I’m trying to bring her back.” Karl says. “Bethany’s my other line of work, more or less. I’ve been taking care of her ever since… Maker, it’s been quite a while now.” He raps the edge of the letter against his hand. “It’s what this is all about, I suppose. Their mother Leandra lives in Hightown now, and…” Karl pauses. “You’re going to hear it eventually, so I might as well… After she was injured, Bethany returned to Hightown for a time. She’d come down often enough, but her mother had already lost so much, and it seemed…” He pauses again. “It wasn’t her fault. Leandra thinks we’re doing it to punish her, but it really wasn’t… there was a party, the way they do up there. Bethany is still very beautiful, and Leandra was distracted, and I suppose if you’re a little drunk and bored and possess nothing resembling common human decency…”

Yes, Fenris knows.

“Luckily, Hawke was there, and found them before anything… and that’s the story of how she nearly tossed the second son of the richest man in Kirkwall right off the cliffs. I can’t tell you what kept her from killing him, I really can’t. He… departed for the Marches soon after, and Hawke pulled rank on her mother to keep Bethany from ever going back home. It’s, ah, the law here. Rangers are just about the most valuable people around, and so Hawke was given custody of her sister from the start, but after what happened… she put Bethany under my care, permanently.”

“She is your property.”

Karl shakes his head. “I’m her guardian, until I can undo the damage that’s been done to her. Bethany can get the best care here, and she’s among friends, people who will always look after her. Unfortunately, Leandra doesn’t see it that way, and I do understand, I know that she’s hurting. I know it was an accident, but… here we are, going to court every six months or so to fight it out again. It just isn’t safe for her up there.”

Fenris has no idea what to think. It ought to sicken him, the whole idea. If it were any other place, any other man - but does he honestly doubt Karl’s intentions? 

_He could be lying. All of this._

That seems unlikely, no reason the man would see the need when Fenris can do so little to stop him - but then what does that say about Hawke? He had thought he knew her, or at least enough, but now it seems he is right back at the start.

“We’re almost done here, at least for today” Karl says, and begins to carefully peel away the sensors and untangle the wires. “If you were all right with it, I’d like to get you back here sooner than later. It would be just more of the same, nothing more taxing than what we’ve done so far.”

Fenris nearly laughs at that - he’s exhausted, this easily the worst of it all so far. He cannot wait to be gone from this room and never wants to come back - but there is another feeling, tucked in amidst the confusion and the wariness and he is too afraid of hope not to recognize it instantly, even as a flicker in dark.

“Are you making me your next project?” It comes out warm rather than suspicious. He wasn’t sure it would, but Karl smiles.

“I can’t make you any promises, but there might… in my research I’ve been studying memory, as much as anything.”

The offer is so tempting Fenris knows it can’t be real. It’s too much, far too much of what he’s desperate for.

“I’m not sure if you’d consider this, but Anders is also-“

“No.” Fenris is almost grateful to hear that name, every good reason to shut this down now.

“He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Consider it matter of professional pride than kindness, if you need to. Even if you were his worst enemy, he wouldn’t… he’s not like that.”

“I hear he saves it for his friends.”

Fenris knows he could have phrased that some other way, and despite everything it hurts to see Karl flinch.

“Ah. Anders gave you the whole story, did he? He really does have a way with first impressions. Whatever he might have told you, he didn’t mean-“

“He said he didn’t regret it. What happened in Ferelden.”

He goes very still - and yes, Fenris, if these were Anders’ friends they were all most likely Karl’s friends as well, now weren’t they?

_Well done, little wolf. The teeth on you._

“I suppose it does sell a bit better than ‘I killed all my friends and I don’t know how to make it right.’” Karl looks down at his hands, his expression impossible to read. “What do you do, when you make a mistake you can’t come back from? Why bother with an apology, when it’s never going to be enough?”

Fenris thinks of the clear gold light of the jungle in Seheron, and the sound of water over stones and the blood drying on his hands.

“I was supposed to be there, you know.” Karl says, as lightly as if he were speaking of anything else. “Anders and I grew up in Ferelden’s Tower together. I was there when they brought him in, and I was there for every one of his plans, but the night before, I came down with a cold. Flat on my back, and he told me I should just sleep in. I wanted him to wait, but Anders… he said I’d wake up, and everything would be different.” He lets out a soft, joyless laugh. “I suppose he wasn’t wrong. He gets like that, or he used to. No stopping him, and he… Anders was just lit up with it, so certain he was going to change the world. Make it better, make it right again. He just wants what we all want. A day where nobody has to ask ‘how old were you when your whole family were killed by the Kaiju?’”

He ought to apologize, but he doesn’t. He ought to say anything, but he can’t. Once again, the best that Fenris can do is wait to run away.

“Well, you’re free to go.” Karl says. “I’ll pass on my approval to the Marshall. Everything else stays confidential, pending your assignment to the Rangers. I hope that you’ll consider my offer. If not, good luck with the rest of the program.”

Fenris does not intend to ask the question. He intends to put as much space between him and this place as the Shatterdome can allow, and yet it slips out anyway.

“How old were you, when your family-“

“Nine. I was nine.”


	9. Chapter 9

Drifting doesn’t mix well with the teachings of the Qun, more than a little blasphemy in such an intimate joining of souls. Of course, being devoured by giant monsters has always provided a rather compelling counter-argument. The ox-men of the North claim a few dwarves among their converted, though there are rumors that their Jaegers still run along far different principles, and might not even be powered by lyrium. The details of Par Vollen’s war machines are highly guarded, their pilots quite willing to self-destruct before any outsiders can get that close. 

It’s been said that, to honor the Qun as well as they can, their Rangers have learned to leave all that they are at the edge of the Drift. No memory, no emotion, nothing comes with them but the common goal. It certainly makes them fast - Fenris had learned that the hard way, torn to pieces on Seheron’s shores, with Danarius gone and the rest of the indentured dead and he should have died as well, a question of only if the shock would get him before the self-destruct had a chance to trip. 

Fenris breathes as steadily as he can manage against the unwanted memory, scrabbling for calm and doing his damndest to ignore the rest.

After he’d left the labs, the crowded Shatterdome had been too much to bear, and the thought of the barracks was even worse. It had been easier to breathe with every step he’d taken from the lab, and Fenris could see no reason to stop taking them. He’d noticed the notch in the outer wall on one of their endless perimeter runs. Barely even an alcove, a tiny afterthought of space facing the bay, with a bit of the wall angled for a bench and a slight overhang to keep the rain out.

A few drops of cold water still manage to hit him, blown in by an unforgiving wind. The storm’s even worse now than the one that welcomed him here, rain sheeting across the outer decks of the Shatterdome, with lightning threading paths across the sky. Everyone else is well inside and out of the weather, and so he’s alone, with only the most stalwart emergency lights left blinking out against the black. 

As alone as he can manage, at least.

The Qunari focus their thoughts with the same uncompromising will they do all else, and Fenris remembers sitting beneath a tree in that deep green, with the old, wise Qunari trying to teach him a little of the same. How to calm his mind, to focus - to do anything more than shove it all as far as he could manage and bar the door. Fenris longs for a moment of that quiet calm, but to remember it is to go there and there’s no comfort in it anymore. Even if he can think of it as it was, seeing the Fog Warrior beneath his tree, as still as if he were of the forest himself.

Fenris doesn’t have the right to remember him that way. The last thing any of them would want is for him to find peace.

_You do not know yourself, kadan, yet you would know me?_

His eyes snap open, and Fenris knows there’s not much point in trying again. As useful as it might be to find even a moment's serenity, he will have to work with what he has, and ignore what does not serve. Maybe if he Drifts here, it will change. Maybe Karl might know…

_Yes, let’s trust the man you met for an afternoon. As if he’s not good enough at measuring your weak points without being in your head._

Easier to be suspicious, than to face the suggestion of what Karl was offering - hope, the chance for that phantom past he couldn’t give up on. What if it didn’t work? What if it did? Which would be worse, never to regain his memories - or to have it all return, and _still_ be no more than he is now? If the man he was has no better answers, what comes next?

At least he’s picked a good spot for overthinking. The front of the Shatterdome might as well be the edge of the world, or the prow of some vast ship. The air is salty from the sea spray, enough to taste the sting of it through the rain, with rumbles of thunder barely audible over the sound of the churning waves as the storm continues to grow.

Fenris will not make curfew if he does not leave now, but he might just as easily be swept off into the sea if he does. It’s a good enough excuse to stay, with just enough light enough to pretend he's looking through yet another useless manual, the next step in the endless gauntlet he’s convinced himself is his future.

At least this one is generous enough to have a few illustrations - the katas they’re supposed to know, the way they look for chances of compatibility here. Of course he doesn’t know them, and the small comfort of seeing a few other recruits grimace as they’d looked through their books paled against what Fenris _did_ know. In Tevinter there is only bloodsport. It’s going to be a trick to try and pretend he knows what he’s doing without leaving any of his opponents in pieces.

He’s done well this far. He’s been cleared to pilot, that’s what matters, and whatever he’s feeling, that at least is a victory. He is as prepared as he can be, for whatever might come. 

Until the dog shuffles in from the darkness, and Fenris nearly falls off his seat in surprise as the beast lets out a startled half-bark.

A moment passes, and the nub of a tail wags tentatively, and then more steadily. A friendly beast, but Fenris grimaces anyway, bracing himself for an inevitable soaking. Amazingly, the dog politely backs up a few steps, shaking off the worst of the water before trotting inside with its head cocked curiously, sniffing at him.

A mabari, perhaps even aware enough to know he ought not to be here. Smarter than their Ferelden masters, or so they said in Tevinter. Fenris frowns - it looks familiar. He remembers seeing one with Bethany and her servant, the first time they’d met, and that has him up and moving toward the door. 

Tranquil aren’t always as careful as they should be, and if she’s out in this storm-

He has his hand on the frame, leaning forward to look out when a wet hand grips the space just above his own, and a figure lunges toward him from the darkness. He's still keyed up from the labs, more than enough to send his marks flaring just as a bolt of lightning spears down into the bay.

The whole world is soaked in light, leaving him with a perfect, frozen moment, the woman's wide, surprised eyes looking back into his and less than an inch between them. She's nearly in his arms before the thunder drops like stone and all that’s left to see is the rapidly fading glow of lyrium.

He steps back, quickly.

"I… sorry."

She doesn't move at all, buffeted by the wind and the rain - and Fenris knows her when she smiles. The Ranger from Ferelden. 

“… _Never_ apologize for that.” 

A stronger gust of wind finally pushes her inside, though she keeps as much distance as she can.

“No one comes out here for company. If I’d known you were... I wouldn’t have - just let me wring out a minute, and I’ll go.”

“No. I didn’t intend… I thought this place was abandoned.”

She snorts, one hand gesturing grandly. “My leaking, rusty patch of wall is your leaking, rusty patch of wall.”

The Ranger drops on the bench in a dripping pile, her eyes closed and head tipped back, with one hand down to scratch the dog’s head as he settles close to her side. 

“So, you getting enough to eat?”

“Hn?”

“They treating you all right? Enough food, enough sleep? Cullen’s usually not much for the hazing thing.” She gestures toward the churning chaos outside. “Enjoy the weather while you can. It's not always this nice."

He snorts at that, and takes a seat at the other end of the bench.

The Ranger’s completely soaked through, her hair plastered against her head and water still dripping from the cuffs of her pants. In the silence he can hear her catching her breath, as if she ran all the way here from the other end of the Shatterdome, but there's no reason at all she should have been caught out in the storm.

He looks a moment too long, and she catches him watching.

“Yeah, I just… ah, it’s been kind of a shit day." She shrugs. "Nothing for it. Tomorrow will be better.”

“Why would you think that?” The words are out before he can stop himself - and she laughs loud enough to startle the dog.

“Wow. I _knew_ I’d like you.” She holds out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Hawke.”

Fenris recoils. He shouldn’t. If he’d bothered to think he could have figured it out - the dog, the dog is hers, obviously - and even if he’s surprised, he ought to know better than to look it. It was a skill that once kept him alive all the way to Seheron, but it seems to have abandoned him now. 

“Damn, so you’ve heard of me?” She’s dropped her head, so Fenris can’t see her eyes, but her voice is wry. “Well, it’s probably all true - but I swear I wouldn't have done half of it if Isabela hadn't dared me first.”

So this is Hawke. Karl’s friend. _Anders_ ‘ friend. The Ranger with the Tranquil sister - and here they are alone, in this room far from Templars or ground crews or any other witnesses. 

Ah, so that’s what this is.

It was foolish to go off alone and think that no one had noticed, but perhaps this is for the best. Fenris can find out where he stands, and just what he'll be expected to do next. He keeps his eyes down, and waits for it - the offer or threat or some measure of both. Whatever she wants in exchange for her indifference. He wants to tell himself he won't accept, that he might just leave halfway through whatever she says, but Fenris knows he's going to stay, and most likely cooperate. See how much of himself he's willing to give up today in the hopes of getting it back tomorrow - even though he knows, he _knows_ that’s not how it works. 

Maybe it will just be some small humiliation, the Ranger's way of reminding him of his place. 

The moment draws out agonizingly long, as he tries not to clench his hands into fists, not to react. He counts the seconds between lightning and thunder and does not move. Hadriana never had the patience for such tactics but Danarius was a master of the long silence, of letting the dread build until there wasn’t any air left to breathe.

Fenris finally breaks, lifting his eyes, ready to say something too sharp to be wise, anything to get past this - and then he wonders if anyone has ever been fooled by all his posturing. If there's really anything left in him other than reflex and reaction and blind stupidity.

Hawke isn’t playing games because Hawke has fallen asleep.

He ought to leave, of course, even with the waves slamming the steel, eager to drag him into the dark. It’s foolish to stay, even if this is a good opportunity to study the Ranger they call Champion.

If he didn’t know she was Bethany’s sister, he’d never have guessed it. Bethany looks like the noble she is, with a grace and poise that followed her even into Tranquility, while this Hawke - it’s oddly comforting, really, how common she looks. How careless, nothing about her meant to intimidate or impress. He remembers the first time he’d seen her, and little has changed. Even less imposing out of her suit, with worn seams on her clothes and half-healed nicks and scrapes along her hands and arms. Not the sort of person to let others do her fighting.

She shivers with the next gust of wind - it is cold, and being drenched does her no favors.  He can't leave, not without trying to wake her- and even as he thinks it Hawke’s eyes snap open and she gasps hard, staring through him, a wild panic in her eyes before she shuts them tight.

“Oh… _fuck_ ,“ A few more soft curses follow, a muttered litany, and he’s not certain she knows he’s here at all.

He’d heard what Karl said, that Hawke’s last Drift had gone bad. Fenris has been there, so many times that even the terror became a sort of routine. Hours of lost time, with restless snatches of what only looks like sleep - but that can’t be this. A Magister would never take such a hit, even if a Drift went catastrophic. The Indentured are simply cut away, left to loop through their nightmares until it destroys them. So what if they do Drift in pairs here, there still have to be safeguards - or maybe they simply don’t have the technology to make it foolproof. Karl’s lab was a sad pastiche of what the Imperium had to offer, piecemeal versions of what the Magisters took for granted.

_Why is she not with him, or Anders? If she didn’t know you were here, why come out alone?_

Whatever the reason, it was never a good idea to be here and certainly not now. Fenris starts to stand, and Hawke’s hand comes down hard around his wrist.

“Wait.” It almost sounds normal, except for how tightly she’s holding on. “I know it isn’t… I don’t, but can you, just for - just… stay? Please stay.” 

He shouldn’t, for so many reasons, not the least of which is that he can’t remember the last time he’s touched someone that wasn’t in an alley fight or a sparring match - but she doesn’t move, and he can feel her hand tremble with barely-checked desperation, and so Fenris settles back against the bench, and slowly, carefully twists his arm until his hand is in hers, holding back just as hard.

“How long was I…?”

“Only a few minutes.” 

“Shit.” Hawke whispers, and does take a steadying breath, though he can hear it shake. “It never quite feels that way, does it?”

He tries to think of any useful advice. “Breathe.”

The dog is nervously trying to nudge his way under her other arm, and Hawke lets it nearly climb into her lap, murmuring what might be an apology as she presses her face to its neck. 

Fenris can guess at the sort of memory to have her so rattled, that left her partner chasing rabbits. The one thing that’s always guaranteed to be bad.

“A Kaiju attack?”

Hawke’s teeth dig into her lower lip. “I was… no, _he_ was… I think he blocked it out. Didn’t even remember he remembered it. Poor kid. Kaiju hit their shelter and it was dug too shallow to do any good anyway and we all - _they_ all…” She shudders, frowns, trying to separate the memories out into what isn’t hers, the words little more than a steady rush of sound. 

“He was pinned down there in the slush and the mud all alone, and it was right on top of them and… and they were throwing people out into the open. Hoping they could give the Kaiju what it wanted, to save themselves. All he could do was wait. Wait for them to find him, wait to be crushed - just waiting to die, trying not to make a sound while he listened to - Maker, the things people do when they’re afraid.” 

He tightens his grip on her hand. It’s all he can think to do, and Hawke looks down in surprise, as if she’d forgotten she’d ever asked him to stay.

“I, ah… shit. Thank you. I didn’t… I shouldn’t… I don’t usually talk about this.” 

Fenris takes the hint then, and lets go.

Hawke says nothing more. Only closes her eyes again, one more long, slow breath out - and then Fenris watches her do exactly what he’s been trying so hard to grab hold of, all that sent him out here to begin with. The tension disappears as her breathing evens out and he swears he can watch Hawke take that memory apart, as if dismantling a bomb - finding the calm, and her place within it. He’s seen bad Drifts break men, he’s lost entire nights like this one but it’s hardly any time at all before Hawke opens her eyes again, and then she grins at him. He can still see the shadow there in her gaze, but it’s already fading. 

Fenris needs to know what she just did, and how, and there is no safe way to ask.

“So, what did Karl have to say? Are you cleared to pilot?”

“Yes.”

“Spectacular. It’ll be nice to have someone around who hasn’t heard all my bullshit stories.” Hawke says. If there’s a lie in all of this, surely he’d be able to mark it. Ferelden intrigue can hardly be so subtle - but she only looks pleased. Pleased and tired.

“Just what is your kill count, anyway?”

“Ninety-three.”

“Fuck me.” Hawke says, and laughs, and shakes her head. “Fuck me twice, he’s _serious.”_

“The Magisters enjoy a show.” Danarius certainly enjoyed being watched, even if he left the actual fighting to others. Relished the chance to make himself known to the Archon, and between having Kaiju nudged in their direction by the Qunari and the various experiments they’ve made on the Breaches, he’s simply had more opportunity. Funny, Fenris was never sure until now just how much more. 

“What’s yours?” 

“Fifty-four.” Hawke says. “I was kind of proud of that before just now.” 

She knocks a heel sharply at the wall beneath her seat, leaning down to scrape her fingers against the wall - a hidden compartment. Likely the reason she’d come here in the first place, and Fenris once again remembers how clever he felt, for finding this spot where no one ever went. 

“You know, I should mind being Varric’s charity case a lot more than I do.” 

Hawke’s retrieved a flask full of amber gold, and takes a long pull from the bottle before passing it to him. Fenris takes a sip - it’s very good, easily strong enough to rally against the storm, and they pass it back and forth a few times, the waves casting foam over the walkways. 

“My father… he said that in the north, they have beaches with black sands. Is it true?” 

It’s an odd question, unexpected but hardly dangerous, though he wonders who her father was to know such things. 

“Seheron, on the eastern coast. The remnants of old volcanoes.” 

“It sounds beautiful.” 

One more memory not his own to cling to, and a great debt that Fenris owes to whoever owned the hands that he’s used to swim down to the cracks and crevices of what seemed an infinite coral reef, a silent world beneath the waves. A day of pearl diving, and though whoever he’d been had come up empty handed it’s one of those moments that has saved his life more times than he can measure - the brilliant shades of the stones and plants, with fish nearly half as large as a man. Nothing but beauty, all the way to the surface of the water, looking back toward the sandy shore glittering coffee-and-gold and perfect. 

“It can be.” 

The dog has disappeared beneath the bench to investigate the tiny space for itself, and tiny snufflings suggest a payout, Varric’s charity perhaps extending past those with two legs. 

“Hey, leave it.” Hawke frowns, nudging the mabari with a toe. “ _Later._ Now’s really not the-” 

It’s too late - the dog’s dragged another package out, pawing it open and Fenris’ stomach turns as the contents spill free. A reminder he should not need, that Hawke is not his ally, He knows what her real friends look like as he watches plastic and metal etched with faded scraps of ancient Tevinter tumble across the floor. 

Storage devices, most of them, with perhaps a one-in-a-million chance that the data isn’t corrupted past repair, but that doesn’t stop them from commanding a very high price. Dug up from this ruin or that, and Fenris wonders again just where and how far Varric’s connections extend. In the Imperium, all recovered information technically belongs to the Archon, carefully curated ‘for the benefit of the people’ - a lie, and they all know it, the Archon only interested in keeping his power while entire black markets are in the business of selling secrets that might snatch it from him.

In all other parts of Thedas, even a sliver of such forbidden knowledge could mean the end of a man, but Fenris knows the world too well not to understand how power erases consequences, no matter how great the sin. 

“Great. Thanks for that. Smart dog my ass.” The hound huffs around his treat as Hawke quickly gathers up her illegal tech, glancing up at him. “I’d, ah… I’d owe you one, if you didn’t go talking this around.” 

“My word against a Ranger’s?” 

It makes her frown, though it’s little more than the truth. 

“The Marshall listens to what she can profit from, and that changes by the day.” 

“You would prefer I trust you?” 

Hawke cocks her head. 

“Well no, _that_ doesn’t sound much like me.” 

She’s teasing him, and Fenris bites back his own childish urge to snap at her, and looks instead at her handful of supposed treasures. The Magisters stored information in all sorts of ways, and what seems a stone no larger than her palm might very well hold an entire Age within - if they can unlock its secrets. No guarantee of success, even in the Imperium, and it had always been quite satisfying to hear Danarius rage as some bit of the past preferred to crumble away rather than submit, even if it meant facing his ill temper afterward. 

“You know what these are for.”  Hawke says, watching him too closely, running her thumb over a long string of characters etched across a piece of metal.  “Can you read it?” 

“I have seen such markings before, but there are few who know them, even in Tevinter.” 

Fenris is surprised when she does not push, only nods. If he were smart, he’d leave it there. 

“I suppose you’ll give all this to Anders, then?” 

Hawke is startled, surprised that he even knows the scientist’s name. The satisfaction he feels at that is petty but really, so is his disgust. Why bother caring? As if there isn’t anywhere that isn’t tainted by the Imperium’s secrets - and if there were, that they wouldn’t be desperate to change that, to bargain their souls at the first opportunity. 

“Why would I?” 

He feels a moment’s bitter amusement - Hawke’s protecting the man, or trying to. What a thankless task that must be. 

“I know what he is. Eventually, he’ll want more than lightning to throw at Templars.” 

It’s not an entirely new conversation, from the look on Hawke’s face. “Anders can be very protective of the people he feels responsible for.” 

At least nine examples to the contrary, by the man’s own admission - but Fenris also remembers the girl the Templars had cornered, and Anders had defended her. He remembers Karl’s quiet words - what use is any apology, with no one left to hear it? 

Hawke’s gaze is thoughtful, studying him. “You’re angry with me. Think I’m making a bad call?” 

He cannot imagine what difference his opinion makes. He cannot stop himself from speaking anyway. 

“You want power, nothing more. You and that abomination you think is your friend. If this is the way things are out here, I am amazed anyone bothered rebelling in the first place.” 

Fenris will never find a way out. There is no out. 

Hawke doesn’t speak for a long time, her mouth set in a thin line as she gazes into the rumbling dark.

“We lost the Shatterdome at Denerim in twenty minutes. The rest of the city fell in half that time. Over before it started, before we could even - no one though it could happen like that. You start to think - there were whispers from Orzammar, the whole year after, the Blight year. What they might do, if-“ The words sound smooth and worn, thoughts turned over and over on nights just like this one. “If there’s another Blight, one that really lasts, and we can’t… the dwarves won’t choose us. We’re not their best chance. If they have to pick a side, they’ll back Tevinter - and that’s it for the rest of us. We don’t even go down fighting.” 

“I’ve… never heard it spoken of like that, in the Imperium.” It’s easy enough, though, to see the logic in it. 

“Nice to hear there’s something they don’t know.” Hawke says, and rubs at her eyes and her voice is too even, too careful when she speaks again. “I did wonder…. maybe you could tell me… what do they do with Tranquil in Tevinter?” 

He does not need to be kind, but when the words come out gentle Fenris is grateful for it. 

“There is no cure.” 

“Yeah.” Hawke says, and the word sounds charred, defeated. “I mean, I figured…. yeah.” 

Hawke stands up abruptly, and stretches, the dog at her side as she moves forward and leans out of the door. “It looks like things are letting up a bit. We should go if we don’t want to be here ’til morning. Anyone given you a tour of the floor?” 

He shakes his head - and there’s that grin again, as if it had never gone. Maybe Fereldens are better liars than they let on. 

“Come on.” 

——————————————————— 

“Hey, Ferelden! You forget which side of the door’s the wet one?” 

Drops of water fly from Hawke’s hand as she flips off the other Ranger, but there’s no insult in any of it and this casual camaraderie is still as strange as the day Fenris arrived. 

The shifts in Kirkwall extend into the night, with two teams ready at all hours just in case. Tonight, it’s a pair of what Fenris thinks might be brothers, perhaps from Nevarra, though it’s difficult to tell when they’re not in uniform. The man who’d yelled at Hawke was Orlesian judging by his accent, and the fact that they’re all playing cards at the feet of a Jaeger emblazoned with the standard of Val Royeaux. 

“ _Justinia’s Glory_ , or _Drakon’s Fury_ or whatever dead noble they think will impress the Kaiju most.” Hawke says loudly, her voice pitched to carry back to the table. “Tend to favor their ranged weapons instead of, you know, actually fighting. Maker forbid they scratch the paint.” 

A returning one-finger salute from the Orlesians at the table. “We wouldn’t have to bother if Fereldens could aim!” 

It’s well past midnight, the Shatterdome as quiet as it ever gets. Evening crews are moving quietly through their maintenance rounds, and once they move past the Orlesian’s table it’s almost peaceful. Fenris is enjoying his first real chance to study up close what the rest of Thedas considers a war machine, and to keep his eye on Hawke, the public space the best chance to see how she treats others, and is treated in turn. 

Hawke rattles off the details of nearly every machine they pass, and exchanges friendly conversation with the skeleton crews of half a dozen different Jaegers, while her dog receives an equally warm welcome. He knows what it looks like, to see fear or suspicion just under the surface, and there’s none of that happening here. If anything, he seems to be the one attracting the most wary attention, more than one curious stare, but with a Ranger as an escort there’s no question of his right to be here. 

It still feels so strange, no one in Tevinter would ever keep their machine in a public dock like this, practically an invitation for sabotage. As for the idea that Danarius would deign to know the names of his own crew, let alone those of another Ranger’s? 

“… and that’s the _Siren’s Call_ , out of Antiva.” Hawke gestures to a very impressive looking Jaeger, one that seems unexpectedly agile even hanging motionless in its bay. “Isabela would have words with me if I had words with you about it, so I’ll just say that one time I watched it toss a Kaiju’s head like a skipping stone, damn near halfway across the Waking Sea. That was a good day.” Hawke glances back. “I have to ask, and you don’t have to answer… but what was your Jaeger like? Any special moves?” 

“I’m not sure you’d believe me.” Fenris isn’t sure he can even duplicate the strongest of his attacks here, his Jaeger heavily modified to enhance his… gifts, and he does not want to disappoint them. He tries to cover by rattling off the statistics, the size of the engines, the speed and strike strength and the kind of torque that could snap a Kaiju in two if he had the right angle on it. Fenris tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, but some small part of him is pleased when Hawke seems impressed. 

“… and now that you’ve seen the best we have to offer, may I present to you the pride of Ferelden, the Mark 3 _Warhound_.” 

Fenris looks up, and up - and fights very hard to keep his expression blank. 

It’s the worst Jaeger he’s ever seen. An inarticulate mash of what seems neither form nor function in a dozen different shades of mottled disappointment. It looks as if a Kaiju got drunk and welded it together. A blind Kaiju. Very drunk. Fenris can barely tell where the cockpit is supposed to be, and, and- 

“Is that… kaddis?” 

“Swiftrunner pattern.” Hawke nods. “Speeds it up - and it matches the dog’s.” 

Yes, those _are_ paw prints marking down each of the Jaeger’s kills. Fenris has heard the jokes about Fereldens Drifting with their Mabari, but until this moment he always thought it was slander. 

“I know.” Hawke says, nodding solemnly. “I’m proud too. It’s okay if you need to cry.” 

She’s teasing him again, her eyes bright. Fenris doesn’t remember the last time he laughed, but now he feels the creak of it deep in his chest and then there’s no stopping it. He stares at the pile of wrinkled scrap that thinks itself a Jaeger, in this place and he chuckles and nearly chokes on the relief that overwhelms him, the terrible tension finally snapped. 

Whatever she is, Hawke cannot be plotting his downfall while piloting anything this hideous. It’s just not possible. 

“My baby is beautiful on the inside.” Hawke pats her Jager’s foot consolingly as Fenris struggles for composure. “Don’t listen to him, baby. Jealousy’s an ugly thing."

“That is not a Mark 3.” 

“It all depends on which part you’re looking at.” Hawke still has her hand on the metal, and an honest moment’s appreciation breaks through her amusement. “Yeah, maybe not the prettiest - but she’s got heart. My baby’s got it where it counts.” 

Fenris can see what she means, now that he’s taking a closer look - _venhedis_ but it is ugly. The armor is much thicker than that of its nearest neighbor, with the joints amped considerably to hold the weight without sacrificing speed and there’s not one inch of it that isn’t meant for dealing out or taking a brutal punishment. 

“No ranged weapons at all?” 

“I’d just break them off, and there’s already enough dwarf tech at the bottom of the bay. The ‘hound’s meant for full contact.” 

The Jaeger seems at least structurally sound, but Fenris thinks he can mark the history of its battles by the patchwork nature of its rather extensive repairs. 

“You could at least paint it all one color.” 

He’s struck a nerve without intending to, as Hawke gently shakes her head. 

“It’s not just mine - the _Warhound_ ’s a legacy. That bit-“ she points to the most distinctly out of place section, a long patch of gray-blue amidst a jumble of green and copper-gold, “-that’s the last of the original outer skin, back from when my father fought. Malcolm Hawke and Maurevar Carver - the best Rangers Ferelden ever had. One hundred twenty-seven drops, one hundred twenty-seven kills.” 

Hawke sounds wistful. Fenris wonders what happened, if it wasn’t a Kaiju that finally took them down. 

“Is that you, Hawke?” 

The shout comes from halfway up the _Warhound_ , a figure quickly rappelling down from the midsection - short and slight, little more than a boy in goggles and a Jaeger tech’s uniform. 

“How’s it looking, Connor?” 

“Quiet night tonight” He hits the ground, stretches and yawns. “Just running some tests on the engine after the last set of upgrades.” He finally catches sight of Fenris, and there’s that stare again. “So you’re the one they’ve all been talking about? All the Rangers look like that in Tevinter?” 

“You’ll have to forgive Connor.” Hawke says. “He’s used to buying his manners.” 

The boy makes a face. “You think I’m bad, just wait until Dagna gets a look at him. She’s going to lose her _mind_.”

It’s not very reassuring, how everyone seems to find this funny.

“Where’s she at tonight?”

Connor shrugs. “Off shaking someone down for parts, most likely. Hey, now that you’re here, if you have a minute…?”

Hawke sighs. “… and there goes any chance of not seeing the sun come up. Here,” Hawke turns to him, holding her ID card out to him. “If they hassle you about being out so late, just show them that. I’ll… just pick it up later.”

A Ranger’s patronage, and he hasn’t even had to kill anyone for the privilege. Fenris has no reason not to accept it, at least for one night. 

He’s already familiar with Hawke’s range of smiles, happy and polite and sad and curious, but when she hands him the card he thinks there’s a new one, just as she turns away - quiet and small and not like any of those he’s seen before.

“Well, then… goodnight, Fenris.”

“Goodnight, Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This ridiculously overdue, too-long chapter brought to you by Being a Responsible Adult is Not Worth the Effort.


	10. Chapter 10

If Hawke has to wake up, there’s not much better a place to do it than buried nose-deep in Isabela’s cleavage. Of course, it means the rest of the day will only really go downhill, but what can you do?

“You awake?” Isabela says.

“Do I have to be?” Hawke mumbles, and tilts her head enough to kiss whatever’s soft and in reach. “You should be a national… thing. Preserve. Landmark. Queen of the Eastern Seas Scenic Mountain Range.”

It’s nice to wake up warm and lazy and surrounded by comfortable fellow pilot. Only slightly less nice that Hawke usually ends up here after doing something ill-advised, and the momentary blankness in her memory suggests that yes, whatever she’d been up to, there was a whole lot of stupid going on. At least all her parts still seem to be attached, as she carefully wiggles fingers and toes, and she’s in Isabela’s quarters and not her own, which should mean -

“Good morning, Hawke!”

Isabela rolls away, onto her back, giving Hawke a lovely view of both peaks and valleys, and then a glimpse of Merrill, sitting on the floor next to the bed.

“Hey, Mer. Sorry for…. having drunken blackout sex with your co-pilot?” Hawke frowns, and lifts the blankets. “While still wearing all my clothes. Wow, I’m better than I thought.”

Isabela snorts. Merrill doesn’t answer, because the elf has already been sucked back into her work - too busy committing multiple heresies to bother with conversation. One book on her bent knee, three more in an untidy stack beneath her leg, and a long scroll stretched out on the floor in front of her. Hawke can only read about half of it, and can’t make any sense of that, either.

Merrill has a scrap of golden wire between her teeth, no thicker than a hair, and all her attention focused on the task at hand. Quite literally, one palm up and the wire being carefully fed down into the end of a metal tool that slides it down, right into her skin, a glittering fragment of light that quickly disappears from view. 

It’s not the same sort of business as Fenris’ tattoos - Merrill had said as much, though she still wouldn’t mind a closer look. It isn’t lyrium she’s working with now, and a damn good thing she’s Dalish, that anyone in Kirkwall would think whatever they did see was just more of the same as the markings she already carries, when what she’s actually up to is the reason she was cast out in the first place. 

Even Anders with his grand ambitions and ever-changing piles of tech doesn’t trust Merrill, treating her ‘research’ with the same bristling suspicion most people offer him. He doesn’t believe in it, that she’ll do anything in the end but kill herself, Merrill changing her body with forbidden tech in exactly all the ways that are the most forbidden. All so that she might one day talk to that mirror of hers, carefully hidden among the rest of the _Call’s_ equipment in a private storage locker. 

Merrill swears it’s the heritage of her people, what the Tevinters took for themselves and then lost again when the world fell. Hawke’s fairly certain a Kaiju couldn’t fit through that mirror, even if she does get it to open up, and beyond that… her father always asked questions, and taught her to do the same. Of course she's aware that science is dangerous, of course they have to be careful - but Anders may not be wrong, that drastic measures made the world what it was, and it will require more of the same to get them out again.

“Oh!” Merrill says, leaning down abruptly, to study the document at her feet, the hand she’d been… augmenting flexing slightly as she scans the page. “Wait, I wonder if…”

Before Hawke can blink, she’s on her feet, a flurry of motion as she scrambles out the door, chasing down another moment of inspiration.

“You know, I’ve Drifted with her two dozen times and I still don’t understand what she’s on about.” Isabela murmurs, turning to drape an arm across Hawke’s stomach, nuzzling close. “Fair warning, the next time you stagger in here soggy and incoherent, I _am_ rolling you onto the floor.”

“Sorry. I don’t even remember-” Hawke starts, and then the recall hits, not how she’d reached Isabela’s room but another night, another storm and screaming and the Kaiju…

The boy she’d Drifted with, he’d looked like Carver. It wasn’t all that strong a resemblance, but enough that when his memory left him rabbiting - terrified, lost and beyond her reach - Hawke had a real fight to keep herself from following him down. The echoes had lasted anyway, well beyond the end of the Drift and thankfully it had been Karl there watching and not Anders or there would have been one more argument against what she was doing, and she would have had to spend another hour calming him down as well.

“Didn’t go well?” Isabela says, tightening her hold. The cuddling is pretty high up there on the list of things Hawke enjoys about being a Ranger, one upside to having her brain tossed about fortnightly.

“Another one out of the program. Damned shame we had to lose him, with his scores.” Hawke shuts her eyes again. “… and then Mother decided to drop by to say hello and remind me that I’ve destroyed the family. You know, just in case I forgot.”

Her mother has a knack for bad timing, though there’s hardly much like good timing anymore. It’s not… it’s nothing to be proud of, using her authority to overrule every attempt her mother makes at what she thinks is reconciliation, but there wasn’t another option - there still isn’t. The worst of what’s between them now isn’t even in the words, but the silences between, the things left unsaid - that Hawke is the reason Carver’s dead, the reason Bethany’s worse than dead.

A line they don’t dare to cross, the argument forever smoldering and crackling but refusing to truly light - at least until her mother had said she didn’t think it was fair for Hawke to continue making them all suffer, putting Bethany through test after useless test when nothing would ever change. 

Hawke had lost hold of her temper before she’d known it, remembers her own voice snapping back that of course Leandra _Amell_ cared more about appearances than keeping her own daughter safe, that Father would have never given up on her, that he wouldn’t even recognize what his family had become.

It’s really not good to make your mother cry. Hawke’s not the best at life, but she’s pretty sure of that.

“I could have just dropped the whole day in the Void. Let the kaiju chew on it for a while.”

“Hn.” Isabela says, carding sympathetic fingers through Hawke’s hair. “… maybe not the whole day, from what I hear.”

Hawke groans at that sly, amused tone. No secrets in a Shatterdome, and little point in trying. All the details of her little tour of the floor have probably circled the base twice by now. 

Running laps had been necessary, even with the storm. The slam of the waves against the seawall and the thick salt spray in the chilled air had numbed her, sodium lights casting a pale chill against the void of the night. Hawke needed that bleakness, with the Drift still lingering, the whole day reduced to jagged-edged pieces that jostled inside of her but at least she could work through it alone. Get it all out, where nobody else had to see.

The same routine as a hundred times before - until she’d turned that corner, and realized she wasn’t alone at all.

“Fenris was right at the edge of the wall, watching the storm. I nearly knocked him over.”

Hawke remembers the lightning strike - she’s never going to forget that, the echo of it in his skin, all lit up like - _Maker_ , like nothing else in this world.

“So,” Isabela says, nailing down the details. “He was wet, then?”

“Soaking.”

A pleased sound. “You. Him. In the dark. Wet and alone.” 

“Yep. We mostly talked about Jaegers.”

The sound Isabela makes is much less pleased. “Oh, _Hawke_. No.”

“It wasn’t just me!” She protests. “Do you know how high his kill count is? Whatever it was he fought in back in Tevinter, there’s no way we’ve got a machine to match it.”

Isabela buries her head in the pillow in mock dismay. It’s hardly the whole truth of what happened, but the whole truth isn’t very funny. Hawke doubts being half out of her head helped to make the best impression, she can’t even remember all of it very well - and the way he’d drawn back when he’d found out her name, let alone when he’d caught a glimpse of her little smuggling operation…

“He wasn’t… I’m pretty sure he hates me, Iz. He _really_ hates Anders. When did he even meet Anders?”

“Who has to meet him?” Isabela says. It’s true enough - Anders hardly goes out of his way to be liked, and if Fenris already has problems with men of science…

“I showed him the _‘Hound_.”

“And?”

“He laughed.” 

Isabela laughs too. “So, we know he has taste.” 

“He was wet, and he _laughed_ , and then my heart stopped and I died, right there. I’m dead now.”

It’s good to feel like this. It’s been a while - since Izzy showed up at the Shatterdome, if she’s being honest. Hawke was made to roll with the punches, she can adapt to damn near anything - but it's been too long since she actually wanted something. Oh, and she _wants_ to know more about Fenris, to listen to whatever he’s got to say and do what she can to help when he needs it and hopefully find a few more ways to make him smile.

It’s absolutely imperative for Hawke to hear him laugh again, whatever it takes. 

“You really like him, don’t you?”

The sensible thing is to say no, or that she’s not sure, or shrug. Except that Hawkes don’t really go in by halves, and there’s no point in pretending.

“Do you know how long it took my father to know that mother was the one? He said one day he looked up, and she stepped into the room and then… it just wasn’t up to him anymore.”

Drifting makes for strange bedfellows and fast bedfellows and often multiple bedfellows, with not a lot of reason to put on the brakes. Intimacy’s got a whole new flavor after a few hours of _being_ another person, and it’s not like any fight isn’t just as likely to be their last. No reason not to take the good times when they come.

Except that he really doesn’t like her, a combination of disgust and what she thinks might even be fear and Hawke would leave him alone forever if that’s what he wanted, she really would but there’s trials coming up soon and then selection and that narrows her options down to exactly one.

Fenris could have gone anywhere, done anything. He came here to fight.

“So, he’s been cleared?”

Hawke frowns. “Yes and no. Karl says he went through a lot, in Tevinter. He says they do things there to… force the Drift, to make sure he _couldn’t_ rabbit hard enough to throw his partner - and they don’t even have partners there, not like we do. Karl says there were… gaps, and overrides. I always knew it was bad, how they Drifted, but…”

“Does the Marshall know?”

Hawke grimaces. “Meredith wants him out of the program. Thinks she can punt him to the Templars, maybe hoping to do some tests, get some more data on what they did to him. She didn’t quite make it an order but - I’m not supposed to interfere.”

“… you ever think she might have a point?” Isabela says. “It could be dangerous, drifting with a ‘vint, even if he wanted you to. I’ve heard stories, Hawke…”

“Who hasn’t - but what does that mean for him, then? We tell him he’s too broken to pilot? That we’re just going to finish off whatever Tevinter couldn’t tear down? ‘Sure Fenris, thanks for being useful but whatever’s in your head, it’s too horrible - you deal with it alone because I can’t be bothered to care?’” 

Hawke’s been avoiding Anders, and she knows - yeah, it’s an argument more about stubbornness than sense, but what about any of this has ever made sense? The Jaegers, the fighting, the hope of somehow fixing a world so obviously beyond repair? If they were really being honest and rational, Hawke’s pretty sure it would be the best option just to lay down and die.

Isabela leans forward, pressing a kiss to her temple. “… I honestly do not know how you’re still alive.”

“A good combination of luck and spot welding.” 

“You did tell Fenris _something_ , right?” Isabela says, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer. “He at least knows there’s a queue forming to get into his pants and you’re not just going to wait and hash it all out in the Drift like you always do - and this silence of yours is _very_ reassuring, Hawke.”

Yeah, so maybe she’s not so great at the talking things out part. Maybe it’s especially stupid this time around, when Fenris has every reason to take any missing information as the sign of a significant threat, with absolutely no reason to trust her.

Hawke growls in frustration, heels of her hands pressed against her eyes. “Okay. All right. I’ll just… tell him. Easy, right? ‘Hey, Fenris, come punch things while I fail not to think about you shirtless and by the way I may already be in love with you forever.’ Which is totally not creepy _at all_.” 

Isabela snorts, which seems like a good sign, and Hawke curls around her for the sheer pleasure of doing so. 

“I let the Drift do too much of the talking? Is that why we never have?”

Hawke’s never pushed the issue. No real reason to, Isabela and Merrill came to Kirkwall as a team, and that won’t change. Still, it hangs there, the question of what would change, what Isabela thinks would change if they did.

“I don't need to know that much about dogs. No one needs to know that much about dogs, Hawke.”

“But-“

“No one.”

It’s still easy to just be here, with her. A respite from a world that is increasingly loud and mad and utterly out of control whenever she’s not piloting. At times, it seems like fear is the only thing holding them together. Between the food shortages and the overcrowded slums there’d be riots if not for the Kaiju, if everyone didn’t know that the Shatterdome kept them all alive. Without them, would it all just eventually go back to the way it had, the wretched Imperium of old? Or something even worse, somehow? If the Kaiju finally go, if they find the way to shut that door, who would they have left to fight but each other?

“At least Donnic’s ready to go.” Hawke says. “Steady numbers, good ranking, all set.” 

“Big girl finally ran out of excuses for avoiding him?”

“Hardly.” Hawke says. “But she’ll have to spar with him sooner or later, and then the only question is what they’ll name the Jaeger.” 

“Cockblock Impending. Chastity Overload. Priggish Forthright.”

Hawke rolls her eyes. “In case you wondered, she really does make up new worst assignments to give you on the duty roster. Spends a lot of time thinking about it, too.”

“Speaking of sparring,” Isabela says, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before slowly rising from the bed. “Come on. Let’s go make the Vice-Marshall regret his job. You know, more.”


End file.
